


Blood Red Carpet

by cincoflex



Series: Candy Shop [6]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, M/M, Stiffy Awards, Trekkers not Trekkies, Undercover bums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Mr. Peppermint and Miss Chocolate attend the Stiffy Awards. Ahem.





	1. Chapter 1

The fresh air of mid-morning on the lake was wonderful, crisp and light. Mr. Peppermint sipped his coffee and turned the page of the paper but only half of his attention was on the news in front of his eyes. Out of the corner of his vision, he checked the hatch of the yacht and the depths below, alert for any sound or movement beyond that of the water.

 

So far, nothing, and he smirked gently to himself, feeling a moment of smug pride. Miss Chocolate might be young and nubile and flexible—dear GOD was she flexible—but he was fairly sure that even she couldn’t escape the ingenious bonds he’d done her up in: ankles together, wrists together, upper arms to her torso in sweet even turns of the translucent binding.

 

Saran wrap could be SO frustrating, Mr. Peppermint mused.

 

Still, once the hour was up and he declared victory, he’d make it up to her in many sweet and soothing ways: dinner on the town, maybe an overnight jet trip to Cozumel for a few days of diving along the reefs there . . . so much to enjoy in the time they had left, so many things to see and do and share---

Or, they could stay aboard the Bohemian and keep having mind-blowing sex. Mr. Peppermint closed his eyes and thought about that blissfully for a long moment, savoring memories that were still new enough that he still had afterglow.

 

He took a breath, and as he did so, the cool links of a silver chain dropped over his head and around his throat. Mr. Peppermint sat perfectly still, his nostrils flaring a bit. The chain tightened around his neck—not dangerously, but warningly so.

 

“It’s not wise to bet against the person with the home advantage, Mr. Peppermint,” purred a soft voice in his ear. He didn’t turn his head, but his grin was definitely wry.

 

“Touché, Miss Chocolate. May I ask how you overcame the wrap?”

 

The warm breath against the shell of his ear was wonderfully arousing, and Mr. Peppermint tried not to quiver when she laughed softly.

 

“Hmmm, quite a puzzle, isn’t it? There you had me in my bra and panties, coiled in cling wrap and left on the bunk. I’m sure you were just basking up here in the thought that you could come down and gloat over my immobility in the next few minutes. And the tensile strength of the average Saran is pretty impressive. It WAS a pretty good plan.”

 

Mr. Peppermint said nothing, but his mouth twitched a little.

 

She continued softly, “You were good about wrapping, you really were. Too bad you weren’t good about kissing me before you left, or you might have found this---" In her free hand, Miss Peppermint held out a small white pushpin.

 

Mr. Peppermint stared at it. Miss Chocolate came around to grin at his profile in the sunlight. “Tucked between cheek and gum, a nice little point. With my teeth gripping the base, I was able to poke a line of holes through the wrap around my torso. And that made tearing it very simple. Once my torso was free I was able to use the pin to perforate my wrist wraps and repeat the maneuver.”

 

“Ingenious,” Mr. Peppermint agreed respectfully. “I’ll have to make it a habit to kiss you much more thoroughly every time I leave you. And coming up behind me?”

 

“I slipped through the cabin porthole—it’s wider than you think—and worked my way around the outside of the Bohemian to climb up on the other side of you,” Miss Chocolate expounded.

 

He risked cocking his head; the chain tightened a fraction more. “Equally brilliant.”

 

“Thank you. I try to think outside the boat.”

 

The pun sent another little shiver of arousal through him and he closed his eyes. “I yield.”

 

She laughed, low and sweet; the sound of a gloat in her tone. “You do indeed, this time. I want my prize.”

 

He nodded, being careful of the chain around his throat. “Fair enough. I assume you need to get dressed?”

 

She laughed and he felt the chain slide away from his neck. Carefully coming around in to his view, Miss Chocolate dropped her hands on her hips and grinned. “Very probably, since most shops have a dress code around here.”

 

Mr. Peppermint let the sweetest smirk cross his face as he took in the sight of her. “You are a credit to your lingerie.” He reached out a hand, but Miss Chocolate stepped back, her own grin slightly twisted in a way that made his heart skip a beat.

 

“We have two days left. I need to check my mail and buy groceries. You need to go see that Maynard is going a good job at the Book Hive and pick up those Egyptian souvenirs you ordered.”

 

“Let’s do them together then—-I owe you lunch at the very least, and we’ll collect your prize along the way,” he offered, rising from the chair on the deck. Miss Chocolate slipped into his arms and hugged him, her eyes scanning the little cove.

 

“It’s been _so_ good. I’m not looking forward to going back—“ she whispered softly. Mr. Peppermint’s grip around her tightened in a fierce hug that he gentled after a moment.

 

“Nothing changes when we do. I have no intention of giving you up, and I don’t care if it pits the entire Shop against us.” Carefully he cradled her face and locked his eyes on hers. “Understand?”

 

“Understood,” she murmured, her eyes bright and trusting. They held their gaze a moment longer, and then self-consciously Miss Chocolate laughed and looked down at herself. “I need to go change.”

 

“I need to supervise that,” Mr. Peppermint told her quickly. “It’s standard procedure.”

 

Cocking an eyebrow at him, Miss Chocolate turned and slunk down the ladder into the cabin. “You and your regulations.”

 

He didn’t reply, but his grin promised mischief as he followed her down.

 

***

 

Two hours later, the Bohemian was once again berthed at Grace Marina and the midday sun promised to be fierce. Miss Chocolate settled back in the driver’s seat of the Miata and adjusted the rearview mirror. Mr. Peppermint was in the passenger seat, slightly tense, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

 

“What first?”

 

“Henderson’s the furthest point out, so let’s go there and work our way back. I’d like to make it home in time for an early dinner,” Miss Chocolate told him as she pulled out and onto the road. Mr. Peppermint nodded.

 

“Sounds like an excellent plan.”

 

They drove, chatting of minor things, and moving at a fair clip along the Fifteen. When they pulled into Henderson, Miss Chocolate slowed a bit and took the top down off the car. She grinned as the breeze blew her hair around, and enjoyed Mr. Peppermint’s slightly irritated expression. “Oh stop—I thought you’d like a convertible!”

 

“Convertibles make head shots too easy,” he replied in a dour voice. Startled, Miss Chocolate looked over at him as she took the turn onto Ojai Street.

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“I was in second grade when John Kennedy was assassinated. It made an impression,” was his terse reply. Miss Chocolate pulled the little car up in front of the coffee shop and said nothing as they climbed out, but she did hit the button to close the car top. Mr. Peppermint waited for her to come around to the sidewalk then gestured to the coffee shop.

 

“Now?”

 

“Humor me,” he replied in a pleasanter voice. Shrugging, Miss Chocolate stepped inside. They took a booth at the glass window and looked over across the street at the Book Hive. When they’d ordered and the waiter had slouched off, Mr. Peppermint spoke again, his voice very soft. “I’ve been shot at twice. Once was on the job a long time ago in LA—I was processing a scene when a sniper on a building decided to scare up the neighborhood with a few bullets.”

 

“Bad,” Miss Chocolate announced, her pretty mouth pursing up. Mr. Peppermint nodded. He breathed in, and slid his right hand across the Formica counter to take hers. His fingers brushed along her wrist in a gentle stroke, and she clasped his palm trustingly.

 

“The second time, in Minnesota, was personal.”

 

Miss Chocolate said nothing, but her entire attention focused on him and she sat very still in the booth. Mr. Peppermint hesitated, his gaze down on their entwined fingers. “I fell in love with a woman. A married woman. She didn’t want to leave her husband and things . . ."

 

“ . . . Got complicated,” Miss Chocolate finished softly.

 

Mr. Peppermint nodded regretfully. “Very. I took her out one last time, tried to persuade her, but she laughed at me.”

 

The waiter came back with their coffee; it sat untouched while both of them waited for the man to go away. After he did, Mr. Peppermint resumed, his voice huskier now.

 

“We were at a park, in the semi-darkness. We . . . fought. Just verbally, but things were said . . . and then—I heard the bullet.”

 

Miss Chocolate’s fingers tightened on his; she still said nothing, watching him. Mr. Peppermint cleared his throat.

 

“It missed me, passing over my shoulder and hit her. Right in the throat. Ripped open her carotid and the wave of blood splashed over me . . ." he shook his head, eyes staring down, his brows drawing together.

 

“Grissom---" Miss Chocolate murmured urgently, her fingers tightening on his. He looked up, his eyes the bleakest shade of blue she’d ever seen.

 

“Michelle bled out in three minutes. I stayed with her, and took a bullet in my thigh while I tried to drag her to safety. The police picked up the gunman at the same time the ambulance reached us, and it was her husband. He never said which one of us he was trying to kill.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Miss Chocolate said automatically. For a moment they sat holding hands in the shop, neither of them focused on anything at all beyond each other.

 

Gently, Miss Chocolate let her grip soften, and circled her fingertips along the heel of his palm, her strokes gentle and steady. The slight pressure along his pulse point seemed to calm him, and Mr. Peppermint exhaled slowly.

 

“Sometimes I remember things at the wrong moment. Sometimes I relive moments of my past, Sara. I kept my distance because for a long time I assumed it was the only way to _cope_ with these memories.”

 

She nodded. “And that’s why you work for the Shop?”

 

Mr. Peppermint looked up at her, his expression neutral. “I work for the shop because I let Michelle bleed out.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes. I lay there with her on the grass of Painter Park and watched her life bubble away, Sara. I should have, _could_ have done something and didn’t. Because of that, I can’t be trusted with anyone else’s life but my own, and that’s why I work with the Shop. Here, we’re all loners.”

 

Slowly, strangely, Miss Chocolate smiled.

 

She let her fingers circle along Mr. Peppermint’s wrist, and then back down along his lifeline, stopping in the middle of his palm before she spoke.

 

“Okay, let me tell you something; we have something uncommon in common. Something statistically and spiritually rare, Mr. Peppermint. It’s a link between us that I saw from the first time I looked for it, and it’s in full force even now. Look down.”

 

A little startled, he did. Miss Chocolate smoothed out his hand and ran a finger down a crease in his palm that extended from his ring finger to his wrist, paralleling his lifeline at one point. “A clearly defined line of Fate. One that extends through the Girdle of Venus, the Heart and Head lines as well. Do you know how unusual that is?”

 

Intrigued despite himself, he shook his head. Miss Chocolate held up her right hand and he looked at it, then back down to his own hand: the same line was there, unmistakable and deep. She kept her gaze on him. “Only a _half a percent_ of the population has it. Rarer than negative blood types or albinism, the true Line of Fate could be explained away as some sort of genetic anomaly, but it’s more than that. It’s the mark of a person destined for mysterious purposes.”

 

Over his skepticism, Mr. Peppermint kept listening.

Miss Chocolate took his hand and laid hers against it, her warmth to his coolness, the press of her palm strong. “I never believed it either . . . until now. Five years ago, while processing a scene, I broke up a belated domestic dispute between a husband and wife. She shot him and he died. Listen to me—" Miss Chocolate intoned, her voice oddly husky. “--She shot him over my shoulder and hit his neck. He bled to death.”

 

Mr. Peppermint stared at her, caught again; that odd intense connection that made the rest of the world fade out of focus.

 

“Coincidence . . ." he murmured, but his words had no emphasis to them.

 

Miss Chocolate slowly arched an eyebrow at him, then looked down at their entwined hands. “Ask me what her _name_ was.”

 

Mr. Peppermint said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers, and at that very moment, a small temblor rattled the coffee shop, making the two mugs jitterbug across the table and crash onto the floor as the ceiling lights swayed and patrons murmured in alarm.

 

Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint faintly smiled at each other.

 

***

 

It took the last of the tape to fasten the shoebox to the underside of the shelf, and Ecklie growled to himself when it folded over and stuck to itself. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and shot another quick look around but the coast was clear.

 

He took a breath and thought of Melanie waiting at home, of the baby inside her. More money would help, hell yes. Nobody in the world would deny that.

 

The lab had smoke detectors anyway, and clearly marked exits. They had a budget and the chemical storage room wasn’t on the main hallway, so nobody would get hurt.

 

Probably.

 

Hell, half the chemicals here probably wouldn’t even burn. It might go off and do nothing more than smoke the place out and the laugh would be on Bruce Eiger, Ecklie hoped. That would be hilarious—to find out that his big plot would be nothing more than a dud.

 

Nevertheless. Ecklie finished taping the shoebox, then closed the door and locked it, his latex covered fingers fumbling with the key. He peeled off the gloves, shoved them deep in his mop bucket and slowly pushed it away from the closet, trying not to hurry.

 

The gloves went out with the mopwater, down the decomp drain.

 

When he reached the sanitation office he replaced the key in the storage box, punched out on the time clock and left, his steps getting faster as he moved away from the lab. Ecklie checked his watch, then reached for his cell phone.

 

For a long, anxious moment he held it, then hit a button on the speed dial. It rang once, and then he cut it off and closed his eyes.

 

Ecklie thought of Melanie again.


	2. Chapter 2

The bookstore was . . . busy. Nonplussed, Mr. Peppermint looked around as he followed Miss Chocolate into the store. There was a pair of little old ladies oohing over a book display for Jude Deveraux’s works, and a few student-looking types browsing through a shelf of second-hand text books. Resting on a tapestry cushion near the register, Athos looked up at the two of them and gave a slightly puzzled ‘mrrrrow?’ as they came closer.

 

Mr. Peppermint absently petted the cat, who tolerated it with a flick of his whiskers. Miss Chocolate reached over, scratched under the big cat’s chin and was quickly rewarded with a low, deep purr that rose above the light strains of Mozart that came from the radio behind the counter.

 

“Maynard’s been . . . . busy,” Mr. Peppermint commented, glancing around. “Very busy.”

 

“You sound annoyed.”

 

“I’m not annoyed, I’m concerned,” Mr. Peppermint replied, a trifle testily. “This is not what I meant by ‘taking care of the place.’ How am I to maintain a low profile if the bookstore is . . . popular?”

 

Miss Chocolate hid her smile. “Heaven forbid you actually make a profit.”

 

Just then, the towering figure of Maynard lumbered down the central aisle of the bookstore, golden hair flowing, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the shelves on either side of him. He wore a sleeveless denim vest, jeans, and a black tee-shirt with a Book Hive logo across his massive chest; Miss Chocolate thought he looked like the world’s most literate biker.

 

“Mr. Grissom, hey! I didn’t expect you back so soon, but that’s cool, that’s cool. I have all your mail, and William and I put together a list of priority requests for you, and . . . “ he lowered his voice as he got closer, “ . . . Your mom was on the computer.”

 

“Maynard, a word—" Mr. Peppermint replied, waving towards the counter. Miss Chocolate wandered along the front window, noting that the knick-knack shelf that held the first editions and teapots had been dusted. She kept one ear on the conversation behind her, grinning.

 

“Maynard, I appreciate what you and William have done, but I hadn’t actually intended to . . . make the bookstore _popular_.”

 

“Why not? It’s a neat place—a little run down, maybe, but you’ve got a lot of good stuff here.”

 

“I know, I know—it’s just that for the line of work I’m in, it’s not wise to draw a lot of attention. The key to what I do is to remain low-key.”

 

She turned her head; Maynard was fidgeting a little, looking abashed. Miss Chocolate’s heart warmed when Mr. Peppermint reached out and touched his arm. “Your heart and savvy are in the right place, Maynard—tell you what. Let’s see how it goes, all right? I’m not adverse to change—" here he looked over at her, making her blush, “—So let’s see what it is you’ve been doing.”

 

“Okay,” Maynard nodded, a little more relieved now. “William and I, we just cleaned around. You know, vacuumed and got the dust bunnies out. I shelved all those books you had in the reshelf cart, and William kinda tidied up the displays and stuff. Then he put a few flyers up in some of the shops so that people would stop by, and it worked.”

 

Miss Chocolate watched Mr. Peppermint’s face, amused at the quick shift of emotions across it: trepidation, gratitude, wary interest. He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head at the bigger man. “You said something about priority requests?”

 

“Well yeah. Some of the ladies coming in wanted to know if you’d give them a trade-in deal for certain series and stuff. And one lady wanted to know if she could set up a hospital box so that if a customer wanted to donate a book to Desert Palms they could put it in there and she’d take them over every Thursday.”

 

“I see—that’s a good idea . . . where IS William?”

 

“Out getting cat food,” Maynard admitted. “Your cats are like, _really_ picky, Mr. Grissom. They won’t eat anything but Fussbudget Fish Feast with anchovy bits.”

 

“Really?” This looked like news to Mr. Peppermint, and Miss Chocolate nearly laughed out loud. Maynard nodded sheepishly.

 

“Oh yeah. We were worried they’d run away or starve to death, but when we found out what they liked it was okay.”

 

Mr. Peppermint turned to Athos on the cushion and hefted him up; the enormous cat sagged in his arms, purring contentedly. “Maynard, it would take this beast about four _weeks_ to even begin to starve to death. He and his brothers have been conning you.”

 

“Really?” Looking alarmed, Maynard stared at the cat, who stared back unblinking. Mr. Peppermint sighed and stroked the striped head gently.

 

“’Fraid so. When I’m here I give them Tender Vittles out of a pouch, no seconds.”

 

“But that’s . . . not a lot,” Maynard winced. Mr. Peppermint nodded.

 

“They can supplement their diet with anything they can catch around the shop. That’s generally been the deal I’ve had with them.”

 

Maynard reached over and petted the cat, sighing. “Okay Mr. Grissom. I guess tonight’s feast will be their last one then.”

 

Miss Chocolate came over and joined them, reaching to pet Athos again herself. Maynard brightened at seeing her. “Hey Miss Sidle.”

 

“Maynard. Been busy?” she asked sweetly. The big man nodded, grinning.

 

“Oh yeah. William’s been working on some new audition tapes—just _singing_ ones,” he rushed to add, blushing, “—And I’ve been looking into some courses over at the college. Mr. Grissom’s mom gave me some really good advice.”

 

The expression on Mr. Peppermint’s face was priceless; his brows went up and Miss Chocolate had to bite her lips from laughing aloud.

 

“Really?” he commented dryly.

 

“Oh yeah, she IMed while I was online and I told her who I was and stuff. She told me that there would always be a market for a mechanic, especially in Vegas, and that if I was serious about it, I should brush up on some basic office and business skills. And geez, she sure knows a lot about investing!” Maynard enthused. “Made me promise to check back with her before tax time, and she’d get me started on my first IRA and stuff. She also asked about you.”

 

“What did you tell her?” came Mr. Peppermint’s slightly ominous question. Maynard gave a small smile and shrugged.

 

“I told her you were off with a lady friend and you’d be back in a few days. She seemed to be really happy about it.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“I mean like, REALLY happy,” Maynard continued, his grin striving for innocence. “All those smiley emoticons and exclamation points, sheesh! I’ve never READ a woman so happ—"

 

“—Yes, okay, I get the _picture_ , Maynard. Good,” Mr. Peppermint broke in wearily. “You said something about the mail?”

 

“Sure, let me go get it,” he responded, winking at Miss Chocolate before heading to the back of the store. Mr. Peppermint set Athos down again and the cat settled back on the pillow, grooming a foreleg.

 

A young girl came up with an armful of books, and Grissom moved behind the register as Miss Chocolate lounged against the counter, petting the cat. “Are you like, the owner?”

 

“I am the owner, yes,” Mr. Peppermint admitted, ringing up her stack of Max Allen Collins paperbacks.

 

The girl smiled wistfully at him. “Cool. Hey, did you know the pizza place next door is going out of business?”

 

Mr. Peppermint paused. “No—is there any reason I should?”

 

The girl shrugged. “Nah, I guess not. It’s just a bummer that Eiger Enterprises are going to turn it into a strip club because that’s going to make the whole street different, you know? I bet you won’t be selling too many books when it happens.”

 

Miss Chocolate waited until the girl had paid and left before looking across the counter at Mr. Peppermint. “Leave for a few days and the whole neighborhood does downhill, hmm?”

 

Mr. Peppermint looked concerned. “It’s probably just a rumor, but still, the thought of Eiger in Henderson is not a comfortable one.”

 

Maynard returned with a fistful of mail and a package. “This came all the way from Egypt—man, you really go all out on those book buying trips!”

 

“You never know how far you might have to go to find good romances,” Mr. Peppermint replied with a small smile.

 

He took a carton opener from the drawer and cut the seam of the box, pulling open the flaps and shifting the newspaper packing material. The pair of old ladies drifted over, watching as he pulled out two small pyramids made of sandstone, a book on Giza, a small bronze letter opener with an eye of Horus on it; a glass crocodile and a tooled leather collar with little gold designs of hieroglyphics embedded in it.

 

“Oh how charming! Are you going to do a display for Death on the Nile?” one of the little ladies asked sweetly. Mr. Peppermint paused for a moment and smiled.

 

“Not this time, but that’s an excellent suggestion. These are just a few souvenirs.”

 

“Oh Hilda, he’s a world traveler! TOLD you so!” the woman whispered loudly to her companion. “Sophisticated and suave!”

 

“Oh completely,” Miss Chocolate murmured, her gaze on him soft. “A man for all continents.”

 

Mr. Peppermint shot her a warning look even as a faint flush of pink crossed his face. Maynard picked up the collar. “Is this for one of the cats?”

 

“No, that’s for a dog, and the rest are for a few friends in town.”

 

“You bought a souvenir for a dog?” Maynard asked, “And not your _cats_?” He sounded slightly scandalized, and Mr. Peppermint sighed.

 

“The dog will have missed me—it’s clear that my Musketeers didn’t.”

 

At that moment Porthos sauntered up and rubbed against Mr. Peppermint’s shin, purring loudly.

 

Miss Chocolate grinned, bending down to pet him. “I think you’re going to be stuck feeding them Fussbudget Fish Feast—"

 

“—With anchovy bits,” Maynard added gently, handing over the rest of the mail. He rang up the two little old ladies while Mr. Peppermint opened the envelopes and tried to regain some dignity.

 

“A few bills . . . a notice from the Chamber of Commerce about the pizzeria closing . . . and an invitation to---oh my,” he blinked.

 

Miss Chocolate rose up, peeked over his shoulder at the colorful little cardstock and her own face went a light shade of pink.

 

“Ohhhh. That’s . . . interesting,” she murmured.

 

“Me and William got them as well,” Maynard pointed out, turning from the register. “He’s really hyped on going, but I dunno--"

 

Miss Chocolate ran a finger over the bottom of the invitation, at the handwritten lines written there. “Looks like you gotten the personal appeal.”

 

“Hmmm,” Mr. Peppermint muttered, as much to himself as to the other two. “It’s bound to be . . . interesting.”

 

“Revealing, anyway," Miss Chocolate pointed out, earning a quick, saucy glare from her companion. Maynard chuckled, his voice a deep rumble.

 

“For everyone but Dan I guess.”

 

Before anyone could say more, Mr. Peppermint’s cell phone rang and he excused himself with a quick nod before opening it. “Yes?”

 

“Code. One. Meeting. One. hour. Press. One. To. confirm,” came the recorded voice of Miss Lollipop.

 

Mr. Peppermint did so, and snapped the phone shut, turning to Maynard. His expression had lost all humor, and his voice matched, it, low and deadly serious. “Miss Sidle and I have an urgent appointment. Can you keep running the shop for today and possibly tomorrow?”

 

“Sure thing, no prob," but Mr. Peppermint had already herded Miss Chocolate out before he’d finished speaking.

***

 

“Turn on the radio—whatever local news station you can get—“ Mr. Peppermint requested, pulling the Miata out into traffic quickly. Miss Chocolate knew better than to ask questions and did, pressing the dial buttons to reach KNPR. For a moment they listened to the station tail end of an international news story. There was a pause, and then the voice of the local anchor came on, sounding slightly harried.

 

“In a breaking development, a major explosion occurred twenty minutes ago at the Las Vegas Police crime laboratories on Westfall Avenue. Firefighters and paramedics are currently at the scene and working to contain the fire and to evacuate personnel from the area. The explosion shattered the windows of several adjoining buildings, and was felt as far away as downtown Las Vegas. A spokesman for the Las Vegas Police Department has declined to comment on whether the explosion was accidental or intentional. Several persons are injured, two critically, and at least three people are reported missing.”

 

Miss Chocolate glanced up and towards the skyline of Vegas ahead; a dissipating cloud of black smoke trailed up in the sky. Mr. Peppermint’s profile looked grim. Her cell phone rang and hurriedly she fished it out of her Paddington purse. “Hello?”

 

“Code. One. Meeting. One. hour. Press. One. To. Confirm.”

 

Miss Chocolate swiftly pressed the one on her phone and shot a sidelong glance at Mr. Peppermint. “The earthquake _wasn’t_ an earthquake, was it?”

 

He said nothing, but drove faster, towards the Truman Tower in the distance.

 

*** *** ***

 

Portia hesitated before knocking. She was fairly sure both Sam and Reggie were . . . . occupied, but considering the gravity of the situation—

 

She knocked lightly on Sam’s door, and heard the slow footsteps coming towards it from the other side. It opened, and Sam peered out, looking bemused.

 

And only half-dressed. “Yes?”

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but there’s been an explosion,” Portia murmured, looking up into Sam’s face. “At the police department, Sam. It looks very serious.”

 

Vartann drew in a breath and opened the door wider, calling back over his shoulder. “On the news?”

 

“Yes, all the local channels," Portia replied, taking in the situation with a sudden smirk. There was pink-cheeked Reggie on the other side of the little table; there where the cards, and yes, there were several items of Sam’s attire neatly draped on the back of the girl’s chair---

 

Sam snatched up his shirt with wordless speed and tugged it on, motioning to the television against one wall of his room. “Let’s see. Go ahead and turn it on."

 

Portia did, shooting Reggie an amused look. Reggie laid down her cards in a fan on the table as a commercial blared out.

 

Sam hissed. “You were bluffing!”

 

“It’s poker, Sam—sometimes people DO that."

 

“Yeah, but—" his protest ended when the dramatic film footage filled the screen. Portia sank down into Sam’s vacated chair while he stood looking at the ruined building and the rolling clouds of thick black smoke behind the reporter.

 

“Oh Jesus," came his helpless murmur as he ran a hand through his hair. Reggie rose up and moved to his side, her expression equally stunned.

 

“Who would _do_ that? Terrorists?”

 

Sam and Portia spoke at the same time, in exactly the same flat, knowing tone. “No.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m terribly sorry to end everyone’s vacation so quickly, but the current situation warrants it,” Miss Lollipop murmured to the hastily assembled group sitting around the table in the conference room. She nodded to Bubble Gum, who hit a remote; overhead on the big screen came the feed from the local television station, this one raw and unedited. She spoke again, over the images of smoke and ruined building flashing up over her head.

 

“An explosion has destroyed the greater part of the Las Vegas Police Department crime laboratory this morning. The media is still speculating over the reasons and the perpetrators, but we have the advantage of them in knowing a little bit more about the situation than they do, right down to the most likely instigator.”

 

“Give us a _name_ ,” Mr. Peppermint asked flatly. Miss Lollipop arched an eyebrow.

 

“An agent in the employment of Bruce Eiger is the most likely suspect—one Conrad Ecklie of the day shift janitorial staff. We’ve been monitoring him for a while as a person of interest, and have some footage that seems to point to him.”

 

Licorice and Jaw Breaker exchanged disgusted looks.

 

With a nod to Bubble Gum, Miss Lollipop looked up; the screen shots of the damaged lab had changed to footage of Melanie Grace’s house. Miss Chocolate shot a challenging stare at Miss Lollipop. “That’s taken from _my_ security camera.”

 

“And very conveniently located it is, too. In this business we don’t succeed by being nice, Miss Chocolate.”

 

“Asking wouldn’t have hurt.”

 

“Agree, but had you declined, we would have been forced to use another vantage point that would have cost you your _own_ privacy,” Miss Lollipop pointed out, then shifted her attention back to the screen. There was a shot of a man and a little woman on the porch carrying in groceries. “As you can see, Conrad Ecklie seems to be emotionally involved with this woman here, Melanie Grace. She’s a book keeper for Bruce Eiger.”

 

“They’ve been seen together a lot,” Jelly Bean nodded, “Nothing suspicious about that.”

 

“True. However, Ecklie’s employment at the Crime Lab gives him wide access to it, and his clandestine activities have included theft from the Evidence lockers of the police department, along with an ongoing list of other minor crimes and misdemeanors.” Miss Lollipop pointed out.

 

“Where is he now?” Miss Chocolate asked gently. Miss Lollipop nodded.

 

“That is an excellent question. The reports indicate that three people are unaccounted for in the explosion, and Ecklie is among them. At the moment none of the hospitals or clinics have reported him there. That means he may be at Miss Grace’s right now.”

 

“Forgive me, but—why are we even _concerned_ about this? Let the police pick him up and deal with it—seems pretty cut and dried to me,” Jelly Bean murmured.

 

Miss Lollipop turned to look at him and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Under other circumstances I might agree, but this explosion has destroyed evidence for most of the ongoing cases for the police, including what they’ve gathered on Portia Richmond’s shooter, the few leads we’ve given them on the snuff films made for the senator and the information on Resurrection Gardens. In short, most of their documentation for this last year has gone up in smoke or been disintegrated by water. They’re going to make the manhunt for the bomber a top priority.”

 

“Bruce Eiger is going to kill Ecklie before the police can get to him,” Mr. Peppermint concluded. “And you want us to get Ecklie before Eiger does.”

 

“Precisely. We have a head start on the hunt. When he find him, we can offer him protection in exchange for information, and possibly . . . future services.”

 

“Our own snitch. I’ve always wanted one,” Licorice snorted.

 

Jaw Breaker chuckled. “Yeah, but Ecklie? The guy’s the walking definition of loser, man. We may not find him because he just may have blown himself up—I wouldn’t put it past him.”

 

“It’s possible,” Miss Lollipop admitted, wryly. “But if he hasn’t, then he’s going to be worth his weight in gold. I want all of you on the job: Licorice, Jaw Breaker, you take the Grace woman’s residence. Miss Chocolate, I’d like you to check his apartment. Jelly Bean, you need to get down to the latex lab and see what you can do about creating a mold of Ecklie’s face—something that could hold up on videotape. Mr. Peppermint, I need you and Sugar Daddy to watch Eiger.”

 

The group exchanged confident looks and rose, moving out of the conference room quietly. Miss Lollipop waved to Mr. Peppermint and Sugar Daddy to stay back a moment. When the others had left, she spoke again. “Eiger is moving.”

 

“I know—to Henderson, next to the Book Hive,” Mr. Peppermint admitted distastefully. “There goes the neighborhood.”

 

“My condolences,” Sugar Daddy murmured with a straight face. “You may have to grow your beard back.”

 

Mr. Peppermint winced a bit.

 

Miss Lollipop looked from one man to the other. “It’s a rare opportunity—think about it. We could have access to his business dealings on an intimate basis.”

 

“Intimate is right—he wants to open a strip club,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out with exasperation. “What makes you think we’ll learn anything of interest by tapping his phones and bugging his office there?”

 

“Because, gentlemen,” she motioned for the two men to lean closer, and smiled. “There might be another bombing.”

 

For a second no one spoke, and then all three of them glanced at each other in dawning understanding. Sugar Daddy whistled softly.

 

“You really think we can pull it off?”

 

“I know we can. But we need to find Ecklie _first_ ,” she replied calmly. “And if he’s not with the Grace woman, he may be trying to get to Eiger’s place. We need to move.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Sara tugged her blonde wig a bit and glanced around the sidewalk in front of Conrad Ecklie’s apartment. He had the bottom end unit on a sad row that looked out over a railroad track stretching out into the distant desert. She could hear Yankee Daddy wailing on someone’s radio, drifting out an open window on the second floor, and felt a few disinterested eyes on her as she checked the semi-closed blinds of the apartment.

 

She pretended to write something on her clipboard, then stepped up to the door and fitted the master key into the lock. It opened and Sara peered in, making a quick assessment.

 

He was gone, and hadn’t been back in a while. There were no dishes in the sink, but the answering machine light was blinking. Sara strode in, hoping for a few precious minutes before someone came to check on her. She glanced in the bedroom—the closet specifically, looking for a suitcase—and found it.

 

So he hadn’t planned to run.

 

Sara swiftly moved to the answering machine. It was an older model, and she popped the tape out, then fished in her right hand pocket looking through the selection for one that would fit. She put the new tape in and tucked Ecklie’s into her breast pocket, then looked at the pile of mail next to the phone.

 

Mostly bills, a few local flyers, and a notepad with a phone number. Sara took the top page and the next three under it, pocketed those and moved to the door of the apartment. She relocked it behind her and pretended to note something else on her pad, then moved to the apartment next door and rang the bell. A tired looking woman came out and peered up at her suspiciously, blinking in the sunlight.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Hi there. I’m checking to see if anyone here has reported smelling gas in the last day or so?” Sara commented softly, in a heavy southern accent. “We got us a little ol’ call from the landlord so we’ve been checking around to see if there’s a problem?“

 

The woman shook her head. “No. No gas. Drains, yeah, but lousy maintenance man won’t do anything more than snake them."

 

“Sorry to hear that, bless your heart,” Sara nodded, and pretended to make another note. She sighed. “Well, shoot! I sure am sorry to disturb you, honey. Thanks for your time.”

 

Moving deliberately, she went down the line of apartments, then left the complex and went down the block to where the Miata was parked in a Waffle World lot. She climbed in, pulled on a headset, and headed back for the Shop. As she drove, she spoke softly into the mic near her left ear.

 

“Nobody at home. Suitcase was there, so it looks like he planned on coming back. I have a tape and note to be processed, thought.”

 

“Good—bring them in to Gum Drop and we’ll see if there’s anything useful on them,” Miss Lollipop replied. There was a little pause and she added, “I’m sorry you missed Paris.”

 

“Um, me too,” Sara replied warily. “But you know . . . these things happen.”

 

“They do,” Miss Lollipop replied gently. “Just don’t let me forget that we owe you a trip. See you in the Shop soon.”

 

*** *** ***

 

“So?”

 

“So.”

 

“Costa Rica good?”

 

“Yeah. Egypt?”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good.”

 

The two men sat huddled in front of a dumpster against the side of the payday loan building, passing a bottle between them and occasionally spitting in loud hawking coughs. Grissom conceded that Sugar Daddy was louder, but _he_ got better distance. Across the busy intersection stood the glass doors of the main lobby of Eiger Enterprises, glinting in the late afternoon light.

 

So far, several people had come in and out through those doors, but none of them fit Ecklie’s description. Grissom sighed silently and glanced over at his drinking buddy.

 

Sugar Daddy was nearly lost in a ratty, torn wool plaid sports coat with a slashed sleeve and several suspicious stains along the lapels. He had a wool watch cap on, pulled low, and a pair of broken sunglasses with duct tape along the nose piece. The artfully applied gray stubble along his face looked properly grizzled, and the heavy odor of Night Train, sweat and dirt lingered in the air between them.

 

“Nice jacket,” Grissom muttered, managing a small grin. Sugar Daddy lifted his arms and pretended to shoot his cuffs.

 

“Yeah, GQ’s coming out for my photo layout later . . . we might get a few nice shots along the curb.”

 

“I’m sure—the Bum’s Rush in Vegas?”

 

“More like The Gutter Life," Sugar Daddy murmured back, passing the bottle to him.

 

Grissom looked at it thoughtfully; there was only an inch left in it. “You realize the sugar content in this is enough to eat the enamel off your teeth in one sitting.”

 

“Hey, most of us front line recyclers don’t have teeth, remember?”

 

“You didn’t backwash in this, did you?” Grissom pretended to whine, then took a big gulp. He was dressed in a grimy pair of gray slacks and a bedraggled blue, striped hospital bathrobe with grape juice and spots of mustard down the front. His red undershirt, faded to a soft pink and two sizes too big, read _‘I (heart) the Tangiers’_ in peeling iron on letters. Grissom had gelled his hair wildly enough to give it the unsavory shine of unwashed grease, and the charcoal smears along his cheeks added to his pallor. A little soap in his eyes helped make them bloodshot.

 

“You should be so lucky,” came Sugar Daddy’s murmur. “French Riviera starlets fight for my dirty socks, you know.”

 

“I think," Grissom coughed noisily, “You’ve had enough Night Train for now, Jimbo."

 

“You’re right,” Sugar Daddy sighed. “We should switch to Thunderbird.”

 

Carefully he stood, and rummaged around in the shopping cart at his side, keeping watch up and down the street. A few pedestrians took a wide berth around them, eyes carefully averted.

 

Grissom gave a loud belch, mildly pleased at the resonant rolling sound of it. Sugar Daddy looked over, eyes twinkling over the rims of his sunglasses. “Geez, nice manners, Gil—were you brought up in a barn?” he muttered.

 

“I was brought up in an elevator."

 

“Har dee har har. Swill a bottle of Gallo’s finest and suddenly you’re a comedian.”

 

“Better eructation than flatulation,” Grissom responded loftily. Sugar Daddy paused and shot a weary glare at him.

 

“You know, I hate being intellectually _dissed_ by a guy with mismatched sneakers and breath that could ignite my hair.”

 

“What hair?”

 

Before Sugar Daddy could shoot back, Grissom coughed loudly and spoke again, “Goon alert; Lexus pulling up to the curb."

 

Sugar Daddy shifted, pretending to dig deeper into the shopping cart as he watched, aware that Grissom was sitting up and doing the same while pretending to scratch his armpit. Both of them saw the driver get out and shoot a look their way, then dismiss them with a sneer. The passenger side opened, and another man herded a woman out.

 

A tiny woman. Grissom frowned; Sugar Daddy caught it out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Melanie Grace?”

 

“Yes—if they’ve got her, then Ecklie’s still out there,” Grissom replied absently. “Not good.”

 

Melanie wasn’t going along easily; she struggled a bit, but one of the men at her side reached out and gripped her shoulder, squeezing it hard as he steered her through the glass doors of the building. Sugar Daddy tensed. “She looks pregnant.”

 

“That," Grissom sighed, “cranks things up a notch. Let me go plant a tracer while you talk to the Shop.”

 

Sugar Daddy nodded. He waited until Grissom had lurched his way across the intersection, talking loudly to himself, pretending to pick things off the asphalt and sidewalk, then tapped the earpiece hidden under his watch cap.

 

“Hey Wino Daddy, how goes it?” Came the cheery voice of Bubble Gum in the earpiece.

 

Sugar Daddy winced a little. “Okay, let’s get one thing straight--I _kill_ people for a living.”

 

“Uh, yeah. Okay, sorry about that," came the chastened reply.

 

Sugar Daddy smiled fractionally. “Good. Just passing on that Peppermint and I spotted Eiger’s goons bringing up Melanie Grace to the downtown office. No sightings of our man.”

 

“Noted. Actions?” came Bubble Gum’s question.

 

Sugar Daddy paused. ”Hang on a moment . . ."

 

Across the street, Grissom had reached the Lexus, and was wobbling and singing ‘La Cucaracha’ loudly, spinning and drawing a few pitying stares. He stumbled against the car, setting off the alarm as he disappeared from sight on the other side of it. A few moments later, one of the goons came out the doors again, moving with heavy-footed menace towards the car, hitting some remote to make the whooping siren stop.

 

Sugar Daddy winced as the man yanked Grissom up and shook him, clearly getting into his face. After a few hard shakes though, the man jerked back, letting go of him and backing up. Grissom lurched away, and even at this distance, Sugar Daddy could see the vomit splattered over his partner’s chin and tee shirt. The goon moved after him, thought better of it, and turned back to the building.

 

Sugar Daddy sighed. “Bug planted. We’ll talk later.”

 

When Grissom slowly worked his way back to Sugar Daddy’s side, the other man sighed. “Smooth. Really smooth.”

 

Grissom settled down on the sidewalk, wiping a hand over his cheek, looking smug. “A squeeze bag of ground up Dinty Moore beef stew liberally laced with vinegar and sulfur—instant vomit.”

 

“And here I am, wondering why a charmer like you hasn’t been snapped up,” Sugar Daddy smirked.

 

Grissom gave a sad little shake of his head. “Especially by those French Rivera starlets.”

 

Sugar Daddy reached for another bottle of wine and sighed heavily. “Yeah, well it’s hard out here for a bum.”


	4. Chapter 4

Licorice and Jaw Breaker looked around the living room of Melanie Grace’s house in silence. They’d slipped in when she’d gone off shopping; half an hour later, Miss Lollipop had called and told them of her kidnapping from the parking lot of the grocery store.

 

Neither of them felt very good at the moment.

 

“Aw man," Jaw Breaker muttered, picking up a delicate little half-finished piece of knitting from a basket at the end of the sofa. The small sweater hung from the needle, a cheerful buttery yellow wool shape. From across the room, Licorice held up a bottle of pre-natal vitamins and nodded.

 

“Yeah. You know I never liked Ecklie much—he’s always been on the weasley side—but I do believe this woman’s been _good_ for our boy.”

 

“Yep. Especially now. You think he did the job for money?” Jaw Breaker mused. “You know, little more income now that she was pregnant?”

 

Licorice nodded. “I could see that. Not like he has a lot of options anyway. And you know how Eiger works—I bet that bastard’s got something on Ecklie that keeps him in line.”

 

Jaw Breaker made a moue of distaste and gently set the knitting down again. “That does seem to be Baby Brucie’s M. O. Where do you think Ecklie’s hanging out—and do you think he _knows_ his lady’s been grabbed?”

 

Licorice thought about that as he crossed the room to join Jaw Breaker. He looked around the small, tidy living room carefully.

 

“Hard to say, but we could start with his big three hangouts and work it from there. I have the feeling the cops are going to come calling pretty damned soon. And no, I don’t think he knows about Ms Grace being nabbed. If he’d thought ahead, he would have told her to leave town before he bombed the lab.”

 

Jaw Breaker nodded and checked his watch. “Okay, let’s hit the road and check out the Moon Glow first.”

 

They carefully slipped out the side door of the house and around the neat garbage cans. Jaw Breaker looked down the hill towards the lake, grinning at the sight of the dock and the boats in their slips. “Hey, Miss C’s boat’s down that way, huh?”

 

“Yeah, the big yacht there at the end. Nice piece of floating real estate, huh?” Licorice replied, slipping on his sunglasses. Jaw Breaker nodded.

 

“Sweet. I wonder if she fishes.”

 

Licorice gave a snort. “Nick, that’s her _home_ , dude—It’s not a day rental you can charter, you know.”

 

Nick blinked a little, startled. “No kidding—she lives there, like, full-time?”

 

Licorice nodded. “Yep . . . her own ship on the high seas. I heard it cost plenty to have it moved from San Francisco here, but I guess it must be worth it. Come on, we better get moving.”

 

They headed back to the parking lot of the marina; Jaw Breaker shot one last look over his shoulder at the boats, whistling softly. “Man, it really is a beauty.”

 

“What would _you_ know? You come from bass boat country, Texas Boy,” Licorice teased as they climbed into the jeep. Jaw Breaker laughed and pulled on his own sunglasses.

 

“I know enough to keep my hard earned money invested on dry land, that’s for sure—to the Moon Glow . . ."

 

They drove off.

 

*** *** ***

 

She rounded the corner, steeling herself for the sight of him; even so, it hit her sensibilities hard when she finally spotted his familiar shape propped up against the side of the building. The sun had begun to set, and the cool mauve chill of oncoming night colored things with a faint tint. The harsher lights of various casinos, bars, nightclubs and shops sparkled, making the grimy sidewalk seem dark and heavy.

 

Sara stopped and looked at Mr. Peppermint. He hadn’t broken his gaze from the building across the street, and his complete stillness told of concentration mixed with fatigue. She lightly nudged one of his legs with her foot. “You bum,” she began, conversationally.

 

“There but for the grace of God," he replied pleasantly, finally turning his gaze up to her. For a moment she noted his little self-conscious wince; his awareness of his unsavory appearance and her amusement at the same. “Spare change, pretty lady?”

 

She pulled out a street map and held it up, speaking to Mr. Peppermint over the top of it. “No luck so far on finding Ecklie. The police have been to the Marina and left cards on all the boats there. According to the official statements, they’re still investigating the explosion but they haven’t officially called it a bombing yet. I guess they can’t rule out the possibility of an accident until they finish an in-depth analysis, and that’s delayed because they have to send all the evidence to outlying labs. Is that _vomit_ on your shirt?”

 

“Beef stew, masquerading as vomit. I apologize—it’s gotten a little pungent over the hours. Melanie Grace hasn’t come out of the building—at least not through the front door. Jim’s watching the back.”

 

“Ah. How long do you think you two will be out tonight?” Sara asked wistfully. Mr. Peppermint shifted a little and waved his arms, pointing towards the Strip.

 

“Jelly Bean and Sugar Baby are taking over in twenty minutes. If you’re free, I’d love to take you to dinner,” he murmured at her sweetly. Sara shook her map a little and pretended to look off towards the direction of the Strip.

 

“I’m sure we could cruise the back alleys here to our heart’s content,” she teased. Mr. Peppermint managed a little knowing grin.

 

“Then I could bring you back to my mobile home," he rapped the side of the dumpster, “Or maybe take you to my little place in the country," he pointed to an empty cardboard box braced up against a straggly tree at the curb. Sara snorted, covering her mouth with one hand at the sight.

 

Mr. Peppermint winked at her, and she smiled then, a full, beautiful sight in the reflections. Carefully she folded up the map, then fished in her purse, pulling out a pair of dollar bills. “You’ve got a _date_ , hot stuff—I can’t resist a playboy like you.”

 

“Formal then,” he told her. “High heels, lipstick, tetanus shot—meet you at the front of Winston’s in an hour, Frango, and we’ll paint the town in shades of vermilion.”

 

“Vermilion?” she replied with a hint of surprise, but Mr. Peppermint didn’t reply; he cocked his head and looked at her with soft eyes as she blushed. Carefully she handed him the two dollars and he took them gently.

 

“Until then," He murmured, and Sara nodded. She straightened up and moved on down the sidewalk, in the direction of the lights as Mr. Peppermint watched her go, enjoying the vision of her taut backside swaying with each step. When he finally lost sight of her in the crowds, he turned his head, risking a glance at Eiger Enterprises.

 

Most of the lights were off in the building, except those on the third floor, and Mr. Peppermint had seen people passing behind the windows up there. He shifted a little, wishing he knew how this endgame would play out; a lot would depend on Ecklie once they found him.

 

He hoped it would be soon—stakeouts always seemed glamorous on TV, but in real life, they were boring and in this case, disgusting. Mr. Peppermint pocketed his two dollars and spoke into the little phone hooked into the lapel of his bathrobe. “Almost time to haul it in, Jim.”

 

“Not a damned moment too soon—I want to brush my teeth with bleach and sit in a steaming tub for about a week,” came the low grouse.

 

Mr. Peppermint chuckled. “Not having fun?”

 

“Oh sure I am—parking my butt on grease-stained concrete amid bags of old Chinese food and half-empty cans of pesticide just _defines_ fun for me, Gil. Not to mention I got hit on by some shopping cart sweetheart who looked like Grandmamma Addams.”

 

“Lady killer.”

 

“I was tempted—she wanted to arm wrestle me for the rest of my fine dessert wine here.”

 

“And they say romance is dead,” Mr. Peppermint sighed. He squinted towards the street again, spotting a lean figure in a worn pea coat and knit cap heading his way. “I see Greg, so Ellie can’t be too far behind.”

 

“Amen, although I want her near the curb where JB can keep an eye on her—there’s only one light back here, and too many shadows.”

 

“Good idea. Out.”

 

Mr. Peppermint waited until Jelly Bean had picked up the cardboard box and set it up under the streetlight at the corner. The Bean pulled out three cards and began a little patter, his fingers moving the cards with expertise, his tone light and inviting. “Hey, hey, cheaper than any casino and twice as lucky folks! Find the lady and win right here, right now! It’s so easy, even a . . . .” he looked over at Mr. Peppermint, “--A permanent outdoorsman can find her!”

 

Mr. Peppermint arched an eyebrow at this euphemism, but said nothing, shuffling forward and giving a little grunt. Jelly Bean smiled sunnily. “Lay down a dollar and get three back, Sir, simple as collecting cans and a lot faster!”

 

Mr. Peppermint fished for one of the bills that Miss Chocolate had given him and dropped it on the box. A crowd of three people paused to watch as Jelly Bean shuffled the cards back and forth, his words running along in a smooth and practiced patois. “Hey, hey can you find her? See her move, see her move, here then there then back again, can you spot where the lady is now?”

 

He paused, looking at Mr. Peppermint with a teasing sense of confidence. Mr. Peppermint paused, scratching his chin for a second, and then reached out and tapped the card on the left. Jelly Bean flipped it over and revealed the red queen under the streetlight; the group gave a little murmur of approval. Jelly Bean pretended to be hurt. “Ow! Am I really so bad at this that a mere soup kitchen gourmand can beat me?”

 

Under the chuckles of the audience, Mr. Peppermint muttered in a barely audible voice, “Don’t tempt me to beat you in a much more physical sense, Greg. Give me my money."

 

“Fine, fine—tell you what, I’ll double it if you give me a chance to win back my money," he said loudly, holding Mr. Peppermint’s gaze pleadingly. They went another orchestrated round, and Jelly Bean lost again, berating his bad luck. Mr. Peppermint collected the money and shuffled off, letting another person from the small group step into his place. He slowly ambled away, and around the corner of the Pay Day loan building, making his way down the alley and across another street to a parking garage, feeling a sense of relief and anticipation as he climbed into his car and drove off.

 

*** *** ***

 

Jaw Breaker looked around the bar, feeling a little tickle at the back of his neck. It looked like any other seedy bar in Vegas: slot machines near the door, lots of neon barely lighting up a semi-dark interior, but there was something more in the atmosphere that made him keep looking back to the door. It wasn’t quite enough to stop him from walking in and checking for Ecklie, but he certainly wasn’t going to linger.

 

From the look on Licorice’s face, it was clear he felt the same way.

 

“This place creeps me out,” Jaw Breaker muttered, scanning the long, narrow room. The other man nodded, rubbing his jaw.

 

“It’s got a negative ambiance. Bad feng shui goin’ on here . . ."

 

“Somethin’," Jaw Breaker agreed softly. They moved to the bar itself, a long counter of grey-white marble with little ebony half moons embedded into it. Behind the counter stood a powerfully muscled man in a tight black tee shirt with red lettering that said: _My sperm have their own parole officer._

 

“What will you have?” he growled at them, literally, his words guttural and low.

 

Jaw Breaker tried to hide a flinch. “Oh, just a beer I guess," he replied. Licorice shot him a startled look and he shrugged.

 

“We got Trueblood and Heffershessenheisenbrausendeuselbach,” the bartender snapped, shifting his yellow-eyed stare at Licorice. “Which do you want?”

 

“Trueblood,” both men chimed in quickly. The bartender gave a little sniff and moved down to fetch the bottles.

 

Jaw Breaker gave a sidelong glance at Licorice. “Man, what kinda beer is called Trueblood?”

 

“The only one of the two I can _pronounce_ ,” Licorice admitted, adding, “Besides, we aren’t really here to drink anyway, right?”

 

“Right. You know I hate this bar?” Jaw Breaker told his partner in a low voice. “Just wanted that on the record.”

 

“Yeah, I know, and if Ecklie didn’t meet up with Pedro’s boys here once in a while we wouldn’t have to come in, but he does and still might, so just drink your Trueblood and keep looking around, all right?”

 

The bartender returned and uncapped the dark green bottles, letting the blood-red caps clink on the marble. Gingerly Jaw Breaker took a swig and choked, mid-swallow; the sudden splutter of crimson foam and beer splattered as he quickly slammed the bottle back down on the counter.

 

The little spills on the marble hissed as Jaw Breaker quickly wiped his mouth with one hand.

 

A huge man standing on the other side of Jaw Breaker lifted his wet sleeve and shot a menacing look at him. Trying to be placating, Jaw Breaker lifted his other hand, his palm out towards the behemoth in black. “Sorry, buddy—it’s just a little stronger than I’m used to, you know?”

 

“You spilled on me. I have to hit you,” the man rumbled, in a voice so deep that came from somewhere under the inner core of the earth.

Licorice tensed.

 

“Oh hey man, no, you don’t _have_ to do that," he protested, but the bartender gave a sorrowful nod and pointed to the back wall, where a parchment scroll, torn and stained with faded splotches was pinned up with stilettos. In inky black fraktur it read: _Lex Talionis enforced here._ In smaller letters underneath it said: _Drink at your own risk._ Under that were a series of gashes that look suspiciously like claw marks.

 

“Lex Talionis?” Jaw Breaker muttered as one massive fist flew towards his head. He dodged, but not quickly enough. The man’s fist connected with his nose and the impact sent him crashing into Licorice, who staggered back, trying to brace.

 

“The hell?” Licorice shouted, half-lunging forward, the weight of Jaw Breaker against his shoulder. The other man shook his head sadly.

 

“Shoulda gone with the Heffershessenheisenbrausendeuselbach. It doesn’t burn as much, but it does grow hair on your tongue.”

 

“By dose!" Jaw Breaker moaned, holding his hands over his face, blood leaking out from between his fingers and squirting onto the massive stranger’s coat. The big man looked down and gave a discouraged sigh.

 

“Now I have to hit you _again_.”

 

“Doe, doe, Iawl jus pay fo dry cleegning!” Jaw Breaker snuffled. Licorice glared up in the stranger’s face, righteous anger in his green eyes.

 

“Look man, you _don’t_ have to hit him again!"

 

“You taking his place?” came the calm question. Licorice didn’t quite flinch, but made an emphatic gesture with his chin, and the man swung once more. His sledgehammer fist met innocent cartilage, and the resounding splat had a distinctly meaty tone.

 

Instantly a duet of groans echoed out in the moment of silence at the bar.

 

And then of course, all hell broke loose.

*** *** ***

 

Sara looked up from her purse and paused, looking at the shadows along the side of Melanie Grace’s house. The lighting wasn’t good, but she recognized the general shape of the man trying to skulk along the bushes up against the wall. She shook her head and checked her watch.

 

Just enough time.

 

Moving quietly, Sara made her way along the pier and towards the parking lot. When she was out of sight of the house, she shifted direction and circled around, finding a gap in the straggly box hedge around the back. By the sound of it, Ecklie was trying to reach the back door . . . she waited, and within a minute there he was, looking around guiltily.

 

Sara shook her head ruefully. She straightened up and cleared her throat; instantly he looked over at her, eyes wide. Sara gave a little laugh and waved a hand at him. “Helloooo? Excuse me? Um, excuse me, but could you please, please give me a hand? I was going to ask Miss Grace if I could use her phone, but thank GOD you’re here!"

 

“Shhh—" Ecklie muttered, then came over to her, unwillingly. “Look, Miss, now is NOT a good time."

 

“Oh please, I just—I can’t get the trunk of my car open. I’ve got a big bag of fresh shrimp in there and I’m not going to leave it overnight. I was going to call my roadside assistance or maybe the police to help me get it inside." At the mention of the police, Sara noted Ecklie flinched a little, and smelled . . . scared.

 

He stepped closer, his hands held up in a quieting gesture. “No, no you don’t need the police. Look, let me check it out, okay? It’s probably just a sticky lock—happens sometimes. Have you seen Miss Grace around?”

 

“No,” Sara replied carelessly, handing over her car keys. “Oooh can we hurry? I want to get my shrimp on ice as soon as I can. I got them over at Tully’s market over on Sedona, where they were having this sale you know? And I just thought to myself it’s been so LONG since I had shrimp—do you eat shrimp? I have this recipe . . ."

 

Prattling on, Sara walked with Ecklie to the Miata in the empty parking lot and handed him the keys. Ecklie said nothing, but kept looking around nervously. He bent to push the key in the lock of the trunk and turned it; the lid opened easily. Looking relieved, he straightened up and glanced at Sara who was reaching into her purse again. “Not a problem. So you’re all set.”

 

“Almost,” she told him, and brought up the atomizer. Sara spritzed him full in the face, aiming for his nose; within the first second he began to crumble up, his expression slightly stunned. Sara shifted forward to catch him and pushed his torso towards the interior of the trunk. He crumpled easily, dropping into the car with a heavy ‘thump’. With only a little strain, Sara shifted the rest of Ecklie inside, neatly folding up his long legs and closing the lid carefully.

It took effort; a Miata's trunk wasn't very big.

 

She climbed into the driver’s seat and reached for her cell phone out of her purse. Mr. Peppermint answered on the second ring.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Hi—I have to make a quick stop at the office before dinner.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Nothing serious, just a loose end to tie up,” she purred, a laugh in her voice as she started the car. Mr. Peppermint chuckled admiringly.

 

“You _got_ him. Ah Miss Chocolate, you are a very dangerous woman.”

 

“I hope,” she sighed gently, “you remember that later.”


	5. Chapter 5

Miss Lollipop looked through the glass at the man lying on the bed in the cell, and sighed when her gaze shifted down to her own attire. She wore a green Dior gown, complete with matching pumps and delicate emerald jewelry, and her hair was swept back in a sleek chignon—not exactly the outfit for an interrogation. 

 

On the other hand, Jaw Breaker and Licorice both sported large gauze bandages over their noses along with various other cuts and bruises, so she supposed she was better off. She could change; they had to heal. 

 

“Tell me again how a single woman weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds was able to bring in our target while the _pair_ of you, at a combined three twenty did not?“ she lightly teased. Licorice gave a sigh, and it made a snorting noise through his bandage. 

 

“Yeah, well we were in the wrong place.” 

 

“Ad the wrong time,” Jaw Breaker added, still sounding clogged. “I _hade_ da bar.” 

 

“The Moon Glow does have a reputation, although I personally do like their Karaoke night,” Miss Lollipop murmured thoughtfully. “Ah well, at least we have our man. I’ll need to find out exactly what particular buttons he may have before we proceed; however, that will take some time. I suggest the two of you rest up while I have tea with Mr. Ecklie.” 

 

“What about Melanie Grace?” Licorice asked quietly. Miss Lollipop paused a moment. 

 

“For the moment, she’s safe—Eiger knows she’s his only bait. The police have put out an APB for Ecklie and Grace for all the good it will do them; we can be sure neither of them are going to be in public. I think we can all wait and let Mr. Eiger sweat a bit.” 

 

Nodding in agreement, Licorice and Jaw Breaker nearly made a clean getaway, but just as they reached the hallway doors, Miss Lollipop added gently, “Gentlemen---a little advance notice here. You’re both going to be needed tuxedos, or the equivalent black tie formalwear by next week. Find what you like and charge it to the Truman Account as you see fit.” 

 

“Black tie?” Licorice asked, his brows drawing together. Miss Lollipop gave the tiniest of nods, her smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa. 

 

“Very. Hopefully the two of you will be healed up enough for the photo ops—gentlemen.” Giving them a kind look, she unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Jaw Breaker looked at Licorice and shook his head; carefully because of his injured nose. 

 

“Sometides dat lady is just . . . spooky.” 

 

“Amen to that. Com’on—I have a date with a couple of Tylenol,” Licorice replied wearily. 

 

As they left, Miss Lollipop took a breath. Ecklie continued to sleep as she stepped inside and went to the little control panel on the far wall. Another key, a quick twist and she uncovered the small house phone there. 

 

“Ms. Jujube, yes—I need tea service for two—the crystal Art Deco set I think—and some cucumber sandwiches. Thank you.” 

 

By the time Ecklie began to wake up, Miss Lollipop was already setting out the napkins and smoothing down the cloth over the trolley. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, his wary expression tinged with fear and anger. 

 

“Who the hell are _you_?” came his first question. Miss Lollipop looked over at him serenely. 

 

“Who do you _think_ I am?” she asked back. Confused, Ecklie said nothing for a moment. She let him look at her while she finished the place settings and checked the heat of the teapot. Ecklie wavered, and she waited until just the right moment to catch his eye and speak. “Mr. Ecklie, I’m aware that you probably have a headache and an empty stomach—please, come join me for tea and we’ll see what we can do about making things a little clearer.” 

 

Sullenly he rose and crossed the cell, sitting in the chair opposite of Miss Lollipop. She offered him a plate of the cucumber sandwiches and he eyed them distrustfully. 

 

“How do I know you’re not going to drug me again?” 

 

“You don’t—on the other hand, it would be pointless to do so before we’ve had a chance to talk, and I assure you that these canapés are quite safe." So saying, she picked one up and bit into it lightly. Seeing her, Ecklie relaxed a little bit. He permitted her to pour him a cup of tea, and waited for her to serve herself before he sipped any. 

 

Miss Lollipop nodded. “You’re a cautious man, Mister Ecklie—very wise.” 

 

“What’s this all about? Who do _you_ work for?” he demanded sourly through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. Miss Lollipop ignored his poor manners and added a single spoonful of sugar to her own cup of tea. She waited until he’d picked up his own cup before speaking again. 

 

“I work for no one but myself, Mister Ecklie. At the moment you’re my guest here, away from the police, the media and Mister Eiger, all of whom are looking for you.” 

 

This information made him go slightly pale, but to his credit, he finished his tea, gulping it down and setting the cup on the crystal saucer again. “I saw the news, yes, I know.” 

 

“Did you also know that Mister Eiger has Miss Grace in his . . . custody?” 

 

Ecklie looked at Miss Lollipop for a long, bleak moment, and gave a long, discouraged sigh. “Yeah, I figured he’d pick her up after I did the job.” 

 

Miss Lollipop looked at him carefully. Ecklie reached for another cucumber sandwich, but fiddled with it instead of eating it. He spoke again, his tone softer. “Look, if you know Eiger, then you’re probably aware he’s not a nice guy, and never does a damned thing without a reason. He didn’t give me a choice about what he wanted me to do, but this time I wasn’t going to roll over without getting something out of it. Not for me, but for _her_.” 

 

“And what did you _want_ for Miss Grace?” Miss Lollipop asked as she carefully refilled his cup. Ecklie shook his head gently. 

 

“I wanted him to take care of her, and the baby. Not a lot to ask, since Bruce is loaded to the gills. It was supposed to be a simple deal: I’d take the rap for the bombing, go do my time in prison in exchange for keeping my mouth shut and him taking care of Mel. If he screwed me over, I’d talk to the cops, plain and simple.” 

 

“About the bombing?” 

 

“And more,” Ecklie nodded, picking up the teacup. “But since that’s all fucked over, I’m guessing this is the end of the road. You’ll pass me onto Bruce for whatever YOU want out of the deal, and since I don’t have to be alive to take the blame for the bombing, that’s pretty much all she wrote, right?” 

 

The bitterness in the man’s voice was sharp and aching; Miss Lollipop could feel his utter frustration even though he quietly drank more of the hot Oolong. She set her cup down and looked thoughtful. 

 

“Mister Ecklie, you’re a bright man; much sharper than Mr. Eiger has ever given you credit for. Clearly you know a great deal about his enterprises—why not use that to your advantage?” 

 

“You mean talk to the police? Oh come _on_ , lady—if I did that, Mel would be dead within the hour,” Ecklie snapped. “Not a situation I really want, you know?” 

 

“True,” Miss Lollipop agreed, “But at the moment, no one knows if you’re even alive.” She paused and added, “Not even Miss Grace.” 

 

Ecklie rubbed his stubbly chin, looking bleak. “It hasn’t been that long; I know the cops in this town, they’ll keep looking.” 

 

“They may not have to," Miss Lollipop pointed out. “What if you went back to your original deal with Mister Eiger?” 

 

Ecklie thought hard, and shifted his gaze from his hands to Miss Lollipop’s face. He looked properly cynical. “Just what’s in it for _you_ , then? I mean, why would you stick your neck out for me unless you were getting something out of it. What’s the catch?” 

 

“The catch, as you call it, would be a chance to help bring Bruce Eiger down, Mr. Ecklie.” 

 

He laughed, a disbelieving snort of cynical disdain at her comment, and rose up from the table. “Right. Like that’s ever going to happen. I’m asking again, who do you work for—Lois O’Neill? Portia Richmond? Some OTHER player in this damned town?” 

 

He paced away from her, clearly agitated. Miss Lollipop watched him. 

 

“As I told you, Mr. Ecklie, I work for myself, and I have a vested interest in constraining Mr. Eiger. The balance of power in Las Vegas is a delicate thing, and as you know, it doesn’t take much to tip the scales. Bruce Eiger is a vile, cruel and ruthless man, but his presence keeps the other elements in check. The police can only do so much to keep the peace, so occasionally other agencies take the initiative.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

It was an insightful question, and Ecklie asked it in a low, soft voice, one stripped of his earlier animosity. Miss Lollipop looked at him squarely. 

 

“Because some of us are compelled to do the right thing, whether or not those actions fit the constraints of the law. Because on the fringe of society there are just as many people burning to do good as there are to do evil, Mr. Ecklie. And if given the chance, some of those people rise to the challenge in the most unique ways.” 

 

Ecklie blinked, and cocked his head, looking as if he was just beginning to understand something. He stepped back to his chair and sat in it once more, his expression less angry; a hint of hope struggling in his eyes. 

 

“Look, lady, I’m a freaking janitor with a rap sheet and some shady associates that the police would _love_ to question me about; I don’t have the time or the interest to chat about philosophy with you right now. I’m worried about my girlfriend and scared shitless of Bruce Eiger, so get to the point.” 

 

Miss Lollipop smiled. “Mister Ecklie, I ask you as a Las Vegas native—how good are you at bluffing?” 

 

*** *** *** 

 

The waitress escorted Miss Chocolate in, and Grissom watched them approach the table, enjoying their approach with a surge of masculine pleasure. There was something in the way Miss Chocolate sauntered that left him feeling tight in the throat, and tingly between his thighs; if he dared define it, the label would be ‘possessive’. 

 

It wasn’t the sex alone that left him feeling this way though—there was more to it, and some of those issues were still too new to examine too closely. She had her hurts and her dark places of the soul too, and Grissom recognized that there were still many of his own to be healed; nevertheless, that moment between them in the coffee shop lingered. 

 

He felt as if his soul were a kite, rising high in blue skies over the Nevada desert, and holding him, anchoring him was this amazing woman— 

 

“Hi. I’m not too late, am I?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. Grissom got to his feet, smiling gently at her. 

 

“Never too late,” he replied, amused at how much his response meant. She leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek in a soft caress, then gracefully slid into the chair he had pulled out for her. 

 

“You clean up so well—who would have believed you made your way up from the gutter,” Miss Chocolate teased him. Grissom glanced down at his gunmetal grey suit with matching shirt and tie. 

 

“I was inspired,” he told her, holding her gaze. Miss Chocolate blushed and looked off, towards the window beside their table. The glittering sparkle of Las Vegas at night shone below them, a spread of multicolored gems over the dark horizon. She cleared her throat and spoke again. 

 

“So . . . do we have plans for the evening?” 

 

“Yes. Dinner of course, then a short walk over to dessert, and after that . . . whatever you desire.” 

 

“Sounds like a full night: Dinner, dessert, desire," she teased, finally looking at him. Grissom loved her outfit; the square cream silk halter top complemented her pearly skin, and the embroidered chocolate skirt flared over her long stocking-covered legs and high-heeled sandals. 

 

“I owe you,” he admitted simply. She nodded. 

 

They quietly ordered when the waitress came back, chatting lightly on minor matters, and when she left, Grissom leaned forward and arched an eyebrow at his companion. “Have you received your invitation yet?” 

 

Miss Chocolate grinned. “Yes, yes in fact I have, just today. “ 

 

“May I escort you?” Grissom asked politely. Miss Chocolate looked at him and licked her lower lip. 

 

“Yes, that would be . . . nice. What exactly does one wear to an event like this?” 

 

Grissom gave a wry smirk. “From what I suspect, a great deal of skin, particularly from the starlets. Formal wear on the more revealing side to be sure.” 

 

“Ah,” Miss Chocolate murmured. “Well then, since Macy’s going to be there, I don’t have to pretend to be her, so I suppose that lets you off the hook at Laird.” 

 

He shook his head. “Regrettably, no. Since my . . . camerawork was a part of Starship Intercourse, I _have_ to show up as Laird Donovan.” 

 

“Oh I _get_ it,” Miss Chocolate laughed throatily, “I’m going to run interference for you. Your beard for the evening!” 

 

“On the surface, perhaps, but to be honest, it sounds as if it might be an interesting social event and your company will make it a wonderful night out. Dan and Fran will be there, along with William and Maynard of course. Licorice and Jaw Breaker have probably received invitations as well as Miss Lollipop.” 

 

At the mention of that last name, Miss Chocolate tensed a bit. Grissom reached across the table and took her unresisting hand, squeezing it lightly. The waitress came back with their drinks: a pair of Claytons in cut crystal glasses; Miss Chocolate eyed hers dryly. “Suddenly I feel like something stronger.” 

 

“It’s only to be expected—Macy MacDonald is a friend of Doctor Marazek, and as such she would naturally invited Miss L to the ceremonies. Most of the employees of Tia Carumba will be there as well.” 

 

“This means I should go incognito then,” Miss Chocolate mused, picking up her glass. “Oooooh this could be . . . fun.” 

 

Grissom caught his breath for a moment, and then released it slowly. “When you smile like that, it scares and arouses me in equal degrees, Frango.” 

 

She lightly tossed her drink back and set the empty glass on the maroon tablecloth, grinning at him for a seductive moment. “Then I haven’t lost my touch, Mr. Peppermint.” 

 

*** *** *** 

 

Bruce Eiger sat with a pout on his fleshy face, looking down at the dwindling stack of Oreos on his side of the desk. Across from him, small yet smug, Melanie Grace looked over her hand of cards and spoke up. “Got any threes?” 

 

Bruce uttered a profanity and handed over a card; Melanie quietly pulled her others out and set them together on the desk, along with the sevens, the jacks and the fours. At the door, the bodyguard was half-asleep. 

 

“Where the hell _is_ he, Mel? You think maybe the asshole actually did blow himself up?” Bruce sniped in a cranky tone. Melanie gave a shrug. 

 

“Mister Eiger, I don’t know a damned thing. I’ve been telling you that for the last eight hours. I’m tired, my back aches and I’m betting all my groceries are rotting in the parking lot of Albertsons,” Melanie sighed. She added sternly, “If Conrad blew himself up, I’ll _kill_ him.” 

 

This struck Eiger as funny, and he laughed in a round, barking sort of way. The bodyguard started awake for a moment, then checked his watch. “It’s nearly eleven Mr. Eiger.” 

 

“Turn on the news, let’s see if there’s anything more,” Eiger grunted, looking at his hand. “Got any sixes?” 

 

“Go fish, Mr. Eiger.” 

 

He pulled a card off the deck and studied it while Melanie Grace pretended to concentrate on her cards. The low anxiety in her gut hadn’t faded, not once since Vinny and Brent had ‘escorted’ her up to Mr. Eiger’s office earlier in the day. 

 

So this was what had been eating at Con all week, she realized, The Offer he Couldn’t Refuse. They’d joked about it more than once; the time when Bruce would present him with some damned loyalty test, and now it looked like it had finally come to pass. 

 

The news came on, blaring out of the big flat screen TV mounted on the far wall of the office. Melanie didn’t recognize the reporter standing outside the burned out building. 

 

“ . . . Still have no answers to some of the biggest questions about today’s explosion. Police and the FBI have ruled out terrorists, but still are not certain if the explosion was deliberate or accidental. Investigations are following several leads at the moment. All three of the missing personnel have been accounted for, but the death toll has mounted. Dwight Emory, assistant morgue attendant died early this afternoon of post surgical complications. Please, if you have any information to pass on to the authorities, call the number on the bottom of our screen--" 

 

“Wait, did she just say everyone was accounted for?” Eiger grunted angrily. “They heard from Connie?” 

 

“I thought you had people watching his place . . . and mine, “ Melanie replied, her face strained as she studied the screen. The man behind the desk nodded. 

 

“I do—somebody musta fucking screwed up. Vinnie, get me info. I want Rick O. on the horn, NOW.” 

 

Melanie said nothing, feeling her tension rise. She laid a protective hand over her abdomen. The beefy bodyguard nodded and fished for his cell phone, but just as he flipped it open, it rang. He brought it to his ear. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

He started, paused for a moment and looked at it, then handed it to Eiger. 

 

Eiger took it, staring suspiciously at the earpiece before bringing it to his face. “Yes?” 

 

“Hey Mr. Eiger. I did what you wanted,” came Ecklie’s voice, slightly higher in nervousness. Eiger gripped the phone a little more tightly. 

 

“Connie, long time. Listen kid, let’s not talk this way, you know? Much better to meet you somewhere safe. You and me, we’ve got a _lot_ to discuss,” he practically purred into the receiver. 

 

“Yeah, safe. I agree. Because there’s hardly any place safe these days.” 

 

“Right. So I need you to come on over and see me at the office,” Eiger grunted. There was a little pause on the line. 

 

“No. I don’t think I can do _that_ , Mr. Eiger.” 

 

“Oh really? I think you will, Connie-Boy. Don’t be stupid. I’ve got your . . . . little woman,” Bruce growled, his voice thick with triumph. Melanie glared at him. 

 

“And I went ahead and made more than _one_ bomb, Bruce,” came the quiet reply.


	6. Chapter 6

Mr. Peppermint looked stubborn but amused. “I want to seduce you.” 

 

“No, I’m going to seduce _you_ ,” Sara insisted firmly. 

 

They were in front of the ornate glass display stand of Rick’s Dessert Bar, looking at the luscious offerings inside and quietly arguing. 

 

“It’s only fair . . . if I have to go back to disguising myself as someone attracted to the same sex, then I should be granted this vital opportunity to indulge my true preference,” Mr. Peppermint murmured, eyeing a slice of seven layer strawberry and whipped cream creation resting on a delicate doily. Sara made sure her shoulder was pressed up against his as she inspected a caramelized cream puff the size of a music box. 

 

“Now that is just _overkill_ ,” came her soft little observation, albeit with a sigh trailing on the end. She loved the feel of the warm evening around them, and the way the trees outside were strung with lights. Here inside, the shop had the checkerboard black and while linoleum tiles underfoot and the sweet smell of sugar and chocolate drifted on the air. A few other couples were milling about, most near the bonbon display at the far end. 

 

“I’d be gentle . . . mostly,” he told her in an undertone, deliberately misunderstanding her last comment to make her smirk. Sara turned and leaned closer to him, nearly touching his nose with hers. 

 

The tall clerk behind the counter, an old hand at waiting on flirting couples, sighed, and glanced longingly at his copy of The N.I.P. Handbook tucked behind the register. 

 

Sara spoke in a whisper. “Oh is that so? If you want to seduce me, I’m going to make you _work_ for it, Mr. Peppermint.” 

 

“Challenge . . . accepted,” he growled back, a hint of a flush along his cheekbones, “with zeal.” 

 

Sara pulled back, nodding briskly as she turned back to the dessert case. Mr. Peppermint kept his gaze on her; she could feel it along her profile. “And now I know just the dessert,” Sara told him, staring deep into the glass case. He followed her gaze, spotting the lovely creation she pointed to and smiled briefly himself. 

 

It was a topiary. 

 

A fruit topiary composed of huge, red, ripe strawberries, all clustered in a ball at the top of a thick mint candy stick, rising out of a little basket of rich slab chocolate. The stubbly effect of the ruby strawberries with their little gold flecks looked charming and delicious. 

 

Sara turned to look at Mr. Peppermint again and cooed. “I want to be _bad_ tonight.” 

 

He looked torn between groaning at the pun, and entranced by her enticing tone, his head cocked to one side, his gaze bright. 

 

“Berry bad,” he agreed huskily. 

 

*** 

 

Grissom realized he was nervous. He hadn’t felt this way around another person in a very long time; generally, he took people as they were, good or bad with a serene and pragmatic sense of inevitability. Even Miss Lollipop didn’t faze him as much as she used to; the two of them had been through enough in their association to rise above the usual patient/doctor relationship. 

 

But Miss Chocolate definitely made him uneasy in that belly full of butterflies way. Grissom both loved and feared the sensation, which was always an undercurrent around her. She was the epitome of all new and untried experiences mingled with the sweetness of remembered ones. Like mixing the thrill of skydiving with the joy of summer vacation, he thought to himself in wry amusement at his own poetic turn of phrase. 

 

They were walking along the sidewalk outside the Book Hive in Henderson, not talking but well aware of each other. Grissom carried the strawberry topiary, securely wrapped in heavy white paper, against his chest while Miss Chocolate held his free hand. The night had turned a little cooler, and around them Ojai Street was quiet. 

 

“So. . . You actually live _at_ the store?” she asked curiously. 

 

Grissom smiled. “Wrong preposition. I work IN the store and work OUT of the basement, but I live OVER the store.” 

 

He watched her glance upwards, towards the striped awnings that sheltered the windows up there and gave her fingers a squeeze, just to watch her dimples appear. 

 

“No wonder you’re not thrilled by Bruce Eiger’s future business plans,” Miss Chocolate murmured. 

 

Grissom gave a little chuff of a sigh. “True—but there are much nicer topics of conversation for a night like this.” 

 

She grinned. “Name six.” 

 

“Your neck and how I want to nibble it. The view from my bedroom. This incredibly decadent dessert. Your sexy insteps. My dedication to your sexy insteps. Eating a strawberry out of your navel,” he rattled off quickly, making her laugh in a sweet bubbly sound of amusement. 

 

“Subtle there, aren’t you?”

 

“I prefer to think of it as being honest. A bit focused too, I suppose," he confessed in the shy manner she always found so endearing. She stopped and turned to face him, reaching up to loosen his tie and undo his collar button, exposing the deep hollow of his throat. 

 

“I thought I was seducing _you_ ,” he protested faintly. Miss Chocolate arched an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Just expediting things . . . and using it as a good excuse to get my hands on you,” she admitted. 

 

Grissom looked at her standing there outside the dark window of the Book Hive, the light of the streetlamp putting sweet silver highlights along her dark hair, and adding an ethereal glow to her bare shoulders. 

 

He smiled. “You were made to be loved.” 

 

She blushed; he noted the race of pink along her cheeks, the shy flutter of her lashes as she looked down at the sidewalk. Gently Grissom fished in his pocket for his keys and opened the lock of the door. Wordlessly he ushered her inside the cool darkness, moving confidently in the dim interior as he locked the door again behind them. 

 

“Light switches?” came her slightly nervous tone. 

 

“Don’t need them. I know this place perfectly, light or dark.” 

 

“Is that so? Can I count on you to be my guide dog then?” Miss Chocolate responded. He took her hand again, lacing his fingers with hers, and tugged gently, pulling her towards the center aisle of the bookstore. 

 

“This way . . . Six hundreds, Applied Science--cookbooks, home repair, pets and agriculture,” came his tour guide rumble. Miss Chocolate laughed. She could hear the rustle of the paper around the topiary that he still carried with his other arm. 

 

“Where’s the romance?” she teased. The hand in hers tightened gently. 

 

“The novels are to our left, three aisles over, paperback and hardback, Fiction. The practical applications are one floor up, and available only to a single select customer with close, intimate connections with the manager,” Grissom told her, pulling her unresisting form closer. 

 

The soft rustle of her skirt in the darkness carried, mingling with the creak of floorboards underfoot. “Mmmmmmmm, sounds exclusive.” 

 

“It is," Grissom confirmed, lightly kissing Miss Chocolate’s ear. “But consider this your invitation." 

 

She half-turned, pressing against him sweetly, a warm contact promising much more. Grissom pushed, pinning her lightly against a bookcase and Miss Chocolate slid her free hand along his back, letting it cup one of his buttocks before giving it a friendly squeeze. He groaned a little. “Hey!” 

 

“I know, I know, you’re supposed to be seducing me, but I can’t help it. You’re so . . . teasable, you know?” 

 

“That was not a personal quality I was aware of,” Grissom grumbled, but good-naturedly. His pulse was jumping, and in the dark, concerns about the topiary were fading under other rising urges. Before he did something regrettable, like drop the dessert, he tugged Miss Chocolate towards the back of the shop. 

 

There was nothing quite like kissing during the sudden acceleration of an elevator, he thought dizzily. Miss Chocolate laughed a little, but her sweet tongue flicked against his as they rose up together, swaying to keep their balance. When the car stopped at the top, they kept kissing for a moment longer, and Grissom regretfully pulled back, aware that his body heat was in danger of melting the base of the topiary. 

 

“So this is your lair of seduction?” came her breathless question. Grissom unlocked the grille, pushing it open. He reached along the wall and flicked a light switch; illuminating the entire room and making Miss Chocolate draw in a quick breath of appreciation. 

 

“Welcome to my inner sanctum.” 

 

It was a loft apartment, one large room with exposed brick walls, polished wood floors and slow turning dark rattan ceiling fans. On the left side of the elevator was a kitchen with dark wood bar décor: wrought iron grille cabinets and cool granite counters, the appliances recessed neatly into arched alcoves in the walls. 

 

To the right of the elevator was a nook with comfortable brushed suede chairs and a state of the art stereo system in a glass and polished steel cabinet. A matching bookcase held shelves and shelves of CDs. 

 

Deep into the room against the far wall was a queen-sized bed, draped with an exotic netting canopy that gave it a mysterious appeal. Two tall vases of dried jungle grasses stood guard beyond the nightstands flanking it. 

 

Miss Chocolate eyed it for a moment then looked at Grissom, who shrugged. “I won a home makeover two years ago just by being the one millionth customer at Manly Hammers. The woman in charge of the project thought an African theme would look good with the brick, and when I sleep with the windows open the netting really _does_ keep the mosquitoes out.” 

 

“I _like_ it.” 

 

“I’m glad,” he replied, moving to the kitchen and setting the topiary down. He carefully peeled the white paper away from it, pleased to discover it was still fairly intact. Grissom was aware of Miss Chocolate wandering around, and the thought pleased him so he called over his shoulder. “Choose whatever you’d like to listen to." 

 

He draped his jacket over a kitchen chair and got to work. 

 

She made a happy sound and as he pulled out champagne from the refrigerator, a few minutes later he heard the low sweet sounds of George Shearing flowing out. Grissom smiled; she did appreciate the classics. He set everything out on a tray and carried it to the alcove, where Miss Chocolate had already shed her sandals and was examining a few of the CDs in the bookcase. She turned and noted the tray with a little half-smile, her gaze a sweet heated thing. 

 

“Nice.” 

 

“Strawberries, chocolate and champagne—traditional I grant you, but not tame,” he said, setting it down on the little coffee table. 

 

“Oh really?” came her slightly challenging tone. Grissom reached up and undid the knot of his tie, then whipped it off, the silk slithering along his shirt. Miss Chocolate grinned again. 

 

“I think I’ve already proved myself more than capably escapable from your so-called bondage.” 

 

“This tie isn’t for tying up,” Grissom replied smoothly. “It’s a blindfold.” 

 

The pause between them smoldered darkly. Miss Chocolate lifted her chin and settled down into one of the chairs, shooting Grissom a flirty look. 

 

“I see—or not, as the case may be, “ came her playful murmur.

 

*** *** *** 

 

She loved the game. Trust Mr. Peppermint to have thought of something this deliciously fiendish, blending constraint, appetite, intelligence and competition into one evil concoction. He was good at this; very, very good. 

 

“How many standing positions are there?” Mr. Peppermint asked gently, his breath against her cheekbone under the necktie. Sara swallowed and thought, but it was hard to concentrate with him so close to her. 

 

“Uhmmm, against the wall both legs up, against the wall one leg up, and freestanding, so . . . three?” 

 

A cool strawberry brushed her lips; with a sigh, she accepted it, nibbling daintily, slightly disappointed. Mr. Peppermint’s voice came out low and nearby. “Freestanding, yes, and one leg up are fine, but there are two positions against a wall—woman pressed to it, or supported congress, and man pressed to it, or suspended congress.” 

 

“And which,"she swallowed the sweet berry, “do you prefer?” 

 

“I’ve always liked my back to something solid,” Mr. Peppermint replied, his hand lifting her chin. “Gives support for better thrusting—or so I’ve read.” 

 

She felt his fingers, cool from the last strawberry, and shivered. “I’ve . . . never tried it.” 

 

“Ah.” 

 

Sara heard the flip of a page and longed to peek under the blindfold, but she kept still. So far, she was winning; her halter-top was gone and the cool breeze from the ceiling fan over her bare breasts felt wonderful. 

 

“Name the _least_ sensitive place on the upper torso to kiss,” came the request. Sara thought for a moment, enjoying the stroke of Mr. Peppermint’s fingers down the front of her throat. The fact that he was probably looking at her semi-nudity, toying gently with her as he asked his tricky questions had her feeling flushed and quivery. 

 

Totally horny, if she was being honest with herself. Sara thought about her upper torso and was having serious trouble trying to find any place that wasn’t trigger sensitive at the moment. Mr. Peppermint’s fingers had strayed down over her collarbone and were drawing little swirls along the front of her shoulder now. 

 

“Ummm, the nose?” she blurted, feeling goose bumps rise along her skin. Somewhere beyond her blindfold, she heard a little chuckle. 

 

“Is that your final answer?” 

 

“The elbow?” 

 

“Let’s check," he told her in a low voice, and Sara felt his breath along her face. Lightly Mr. Peppermint kissed the tip of her nose, the heat of his mouth sending another quiver through her vulnerable system; Sara’s hands squirmed around each other in her lap. “No, I think your nose is pretty sensitive. And cute,” he added. 

 

“So it’s not the nose," Sara quavered. “But it _could_ be the elbow.” 

 

She knew it couldn’t be so—just the thought of him kissing her elbow already had her shifting her thighs. She felt him take her wrist and straighten her arm in front of her; the movement made her chest flex, and the cold stiffness of her nipples ached now, hungry to be touched. Instead, Sara felt Mr. Peppermint’s warm mouth graze her elbow, kissing the outside and moving to the soft and tender skin on the inside crook. She gasped when his tongue flicked out, wetting the skin. “Ohhhhh!” 

 

“So not the elbow either,” he gloated a bit. “Two wrong guesses calls for a forfeit." By the sound of his deep breathing, Sara sensed he was just as aroused as she was. 

 

“All I have left is my skirt."

 

“Yess," came the slightly strangled response. Sara rose from the chair and reached for the hooks at the right side of her waist, undoing them. The skirt slid off her hips to fluff at her feet, and she stood there for a moment in her thigh-high stockings and blindfold. 

 

Dizzy. 

 

Vulnerable. 

 

Seduced, she realized with joyous clarity. And yet, I’m the winner.

 

She heard Mr. Peppermint rise up, felt him move closer as his hands slid around her torso in a hungry embrace, pulling her to him. “So beautiful, Sara,” he whispered hotly. “I give up.” 

 

She laughed, and slid her hands up to cup his face, enjoying the feel of his cheeks in her hands, of knowing that he was wearing that bright and hungry expression of love. Sara pulled him to her and kissed him in triumph. 

 

He carried her to the bed; a little awkwardly, but neither of them cared much at this point. They rolled onto the bedspread, and Sara braced one hand on his chest, between the open edges of his shirt as she pulled her blindfold off. “I win.” 

 

“You win,” he agreed. She sat up and held out the tie. 

 

“Then here’s my prize—your turn to wear it.” 

 

“I . . ." he began, then stopped, his face flushed. Sara could see him struggling for a moment, and she spoke up once more. 

 

“Wear it and I’ll work on finding the most sensitive spot on your entire body, Mr. Peppermint--one slow inch at a time.” 

*** *** *** 

 

Grissom wasn’t sure he ever wanted it to end. Miss Chocolate’s hands and mouth slid over him in maddeningly unpredictable ways as he lay back on the bed. She was crouched over him, but without sight, it was impossible to know where she would touch or kiss him next. His cock ached delightfully, and the sensitivity of his entire skin had him restless and hungry. 

 

“Not your nipples," she told him, her sharp little teeth tugging first at one, then the other. His spine arched in pleasure and he groaned. 

 

“God---" 

 

“Not your ribs, or your hips,” Miss Chocolate purred, her hands toying gently. “I think I should suck on your toes and see what sort of reaction I get to that.” 

 

“No!” Grissom grunted in desperation, “Please!" 

 

“Ahh . . ." he felt her slither up against him, stretching out on top of him, and the sexy weight of her trapping his shaft between them left him throbbing hard against her belly. “I think I’ve found your _most_ sensitive place though." 

 

“Want you," Grissom slid his hands over her ass and rubbed against her firmly. “Need you.” 

 

Then Miss Chocolate’s mouth was against his, her tongue tickling his lips in a slow circuit around them. “Love you.” 

 

“Loove . . ." he couldn’t finish the response as she shifted, parting her thighs and wriggling against the head of his cock. Grissom gripped her cheeks and thrust, lost in sheer instinctive, animal desire, and the beautiful wet slide into her drove all the breath from his body. 

 

They groaned together. 

 

For long, mad moments, they rocked together, finding the sweet rhythm of flesh-to-flesh, kissing, clutching, and gasping. Grissom couldn’t see her, but he felt her body, the sleek damp sexiness of it writhing on top of him. He could smell the perfume and salt of her skin, and heard her helpless gasps as she flexed and thrust against him. 

 

He couldn’t hold back; the hard, hot rush of orgasm surged through his frame, and Grissom gripped her hard, pulling her down onto him as he felt himself fountain up inside her tight heat. By the third thrust, Miss Chocolate was shuddering herself, and the squeeze of her climax sent a fresh wave of molten pleasure through his spine. 

 

She dropped onto him heavily, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her loosely, feeling that the best moment in time was to be right here, between the softness of the bed and the heat of his lover. 

 

Claimed. 

 

“I love you,” he murmured, “So very much, Frango.” 

 

She nuzzled his damp chest, and he felt her grin against his skin. 

 

They drifted off to sleep. 

 

Out in the darkness of the kitchen, the little red light of the telephone answering machine blinked steadily.


	7. Chapter 7

Jelly Bean yawned hugely, and slumped against Sugar Baby, his head on her shoulder. Relieved by Jaw Breaker and Licorice, they shared the back of a taxi heading downtown, and Las Vegas was quiet at five AM. Sugar Baby slipped an arm around her companion, sighing. She liked Jelly Bean; he was smart and funny, and when she’d first joined the Shop he’d been her patient mentor for a lot of skills.

 

He was a good guy, and she hoped he had someone special.

 

As if in response to her thoughts, he stirred against her, speaking without opening his eyes. “Do you think Lemon Drop is _ever_ going to submit to my charms?”

 

“Not if she has to keep bailing you out of jail, dude," Sugar Baby told him gently. “That tends to make a bad impression.”

 

“It doesn’t happen all the time—just when I go on vacation,” he groused, deliberately snuggling closer. The taxi pulled up at the Truman Building, and Sugar Baby paid the fare. They walked into the lobby, both of them yawning.

 

“It happens often enough. Ever though about taking a vacation here in the USA?”

 

“Ellie, we LIVE in Las Vegas—where else in this country can that be topped?” he snorted. She shot him a twisted smile.

 

“Atlantic City?”

 

“Pale imitation,” Jelly Bean sneered comically. “And it’s too cold.I’m a warm-blooded man; I need heat to function.”

 

“You need _sleep_ to function,” she corrected, steering him into the elevator. He didn’t argue the point even though his mouth took on a stubborn cast. They road the car down in silence, reaching the secret lobby down below and stepping out together. Jelly Bean glanced at his watch.

 

“Okay, I’m going to sack out for about three hours, so if the divine Miss L wants me, I’m in the Fortress of Solitude, got that?”

 

Sugar Baby snickered, and gave a nod. “Gotcha, Kal-El. And stay off of those kryptonite sheets, you hear?”

 

“I’ve got my lead shorts on," he replied, wandering off down the hall, yawning. Sugar Baby watched him go for a moment, feeling fond of the man. She turned towards the conference room doors and the offices beyond.

 

Henry was there, manning the relay station, his headset on, his concentration focused on the screen in front of him. When Sugar Baby leaned over the counter though, he flashed her a smile and handed over three slips of paper.

 

“Three phone messages; two from your dad, one from your friend in Santa Barbara. Persistent, isn’t he?”

 

“Cute, but not as cute as you,” Sugar Baby assured him solemnly, following it up with a wink.

 

Henry reddened and shot her a comically mournful look. That’s what they all say—Miss Lollipop left you a thank you and instructions to clock out on stand-by.”

 

“Sweet,” Sugar Baby murmured, stuffing the notes into her front pocket. “Anything else?”

 

“There are cookies in the conference room from Angelo’s Bakery.”

 

“Love you, Henry!" Sugar Baby laughed and gave him a wave before bouncing off. He watched her go, sighing, then turned back to the incoming calls.

 

“CS Enterprises; may I help you?” he murmured in a polite, neutral voice.

 

*** *** ***

 

Melanie Grace opened her eyes and wished she had a toothbrush; at the moment her tongue felt thick with fuzz. Across the office, Bruce Eiger was wolfing down a breakfast from the local Waffle World, and she realized the scent had been what had awakened her.

 

“Morning, Mel,” he grunted at her, his mouth full. “Hungry?”

 

She _had_ been, but the sight of Eiger shoveling his food in, and showing the chewed mess as he spoke killed her appetite quickly. Shaking her head, she sat up, stiffly.

 

“Come on, Bruce—let me go.”

“Not yet. We’ll take a little ride out to Funland to see Connie and get this all straightened out. You know it’s strictly business.”

Melanie gritted her already gritty teeth. She hadn’t slept well on the sofa and her low-level anxiety had now simmered down into plain irritation. Carefully she climbed down and waddled over to the desk.

 

“I want to go _home_ , Bruce. Conrad did what you asked so this is all bullshit.”

 

Eiger nodded thoughtfully, as if she’d just said something pithy, then gave a sigh. He slurped his orange juice. “Look honey, between you and me? Connie is no genius. He’s a little pissant with ambitions and dreams, just like a thousand other losers here in Vegas. The difference is that now he’s got a little more to lose if he crosses me. He says he was walking around in the Sirocco all night, fine. But I’ve got Rick O. checking the log tapes right now, and let me tell you, if we don’t see your sweetie’s chrome dome gleaming in a monitor somewhere to back it up . . ."

 

He trailed off, and Melanie set her mouth in a hard line. She glared up at the heavyset man. “He said he was at the Sirocco and I _believe_ him. Come on, Bruce—he only goes to the Moon Glow, the Sirocco and home. You _know_ that.”

 

Eiger reluctantly nodded. “Yeah. But he wasn’t at the Moon Glow, and he sure as hell wasn’t at his place or yours, so let’s just hope his story holds water.”

 

To that, she said nothing, and wrapped her arms around her waist in a protective gesture. Eiger wiped his mouth carelessly with a napkin and checked his watch. The bodyguard who’d been half-asleep on the chair straightened up.

 

“Time to go to Funland, folks.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Bubble Gum stretched, his long arms reaching up as his spine made little popping sounds in the relative quiet of his sound booth. Carefully he rolled his head from side to side, the cracking sound a little louder this time.

 

Suddenly the soft pressure of two hands on his shoulders, kneading on either side of his neck startled him. Bubble Gum flinched for a second, but the gentle squeeze and slow rubbing relaxed him a second later and he gave a gusty sigh of appreciation, tipping his head back to look straight up into Miss Lollipop’s serene expression.

 

“You’re good," he blurted shyly. She gave him a slightly mysterious smirk and accepted the compliment, then shifted her gaze to the screen in front of him.

 

“It’s done?”

 

“Done and done. Splices of Jelly Bean done up as Ecklie wandering around the casino. Altered time feeds, documented conversations, the whole nine yards and then some. I barely got it uploaded and blended in before my contact told me one of Eiger’s tech snitches was asking for the footage, so we got in just under the wire.”

 

“I never had a doubt,” Miss Lollipop murmured sweetly. “And it will hold up to scrutiny?”

 

Bubble Gum nodded, his expression becoming more serious. “All the way to about a third level scrutiny through. After that, a few glitches would alert a sharp geek, but Rick O. won’t go that far, and Bruce won’t think to ask. We’re good on this end.”

 

Miss Lollipop nodded in satisfaction, and raised one hand from Bubble Gum’s shoulder to point to a side monitor. “And the Funland feed?”

 

“In place, as is the mike on Ecklie’s collar button. We’ll get the whole conversation, no problem.”

 

“Good.” Moving away from him, Miss Lollipop gave Bubble Gum’s shoulders a last affectionate squeeze. At the door to his sound booth she turned and flashed him a smile. “You are the _best_ in the country, Archie Johnson, and it was a lucky day when you agreed to work for me.”

 

He ducked his head and blushed, not sure of what to say.

 

*** *** ***

 

He was warm, and feeling the sweet lassitude of rising from the depths of sleep. Grissom hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but his skin was awake, and aware of the sweet pressure of a long thigh pressing against his own. The scent along the sheets lingered; a blend of cozy cotton, musk and skin.

 

The perfume of a love affair, Grissom thought with pleasure, rolling towards the sleeping woman next to him. When he opened his eyes, he noted Miss Chocolate’s tangle of dark hair, the square jut of her lean, pale shoulder rising up from under the sheet. A wave of possessiveness washed through him, and he slid an arm around her slender waist, tugging her up against him.

 

Obligingly she scooted back, giving a low sound of sleepy pleasure. Grissom pushed his hips forward and rubbed himself against the satiny muscle of her ass, definitely awake now; up, as prepositions went.

 

“Early riser," came her throaty accusation. Grissom nosed the back of her head, breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo.

 

“A personal Suryanamaskar, just for you," he commented, “Aren’t you pleased?”

 

“Don’t try and dress up your morning wood with some cultural braggadocio there, pal," Miss Chocolate laughed, rocking back against him obligingly, her hand sliding back to caress his bare hip. “I’m wise to your ways now.”

 

Grissom let his hand move from her waist down her stomach to the sweet tangle of curls between her thighs. He nuzzled the back of her ear, licking it a little. “Want you.”

 

“Mmmmm. How much do you want me?” she drawled, shifting so his fingers could slide along the seam of her sex, gliding slickly in the wetness there.

 

“Very much. Desperately,” Grissom admitted in a husky voice.

 

“A whole damned lot?” Miss Chocolate persisted.

 

“Yes. A whole damned lot, sweetheart."

 

“Good,” she sighed in contentment. “Come and take me then.”

 

She disentangled herself from him and rolled over, her stomach flat on the mattress. Grissom blinked a little, but Miss Chocolate smiled at him lazily and waggled her pert ass ever so slightly. “Lie on top of me, nice and heavy.”

 

“I’ll crush you," came his protest, even as a fresh surge of lust shot through his stomach at the sight of her rangy nude body on his sheets. She shook her head slightly.

 

“No, it’s going to feel like heaven—trust me—sort of a sleeping doggy style."

 

Cautiously he shifted, moving until he was kneeling between the back of her thighs. Miss Chocolate arched up, propping herself on her elbows and raising only the upper part of her torso. She looked over her shoulder at him, dark eyes glittering. “Lie on me."

 

He did, lowering himself onto her, pushing gently into her, feeling breathless as her slick cleft resisted, the pressure squeezing around his turgid shaft. Trembling, Grissom braced his forearms along the outside of her shoulders and stretched out on top of her warm, bare spine, breathing in the delicious scent of her skin.

 

Miss Chocolate arched her hips back, forcing him in deeper and he groaned helplessly as his shaft throbbed. She growled happily.

 

“Oh yeah, slow and deep, lover, slooowww and deep."

 

Grissom rested his chin along the crook of her neck, kissing it as he thrust into Miss Chocolate, moving gently. It was maddeningly good; he could only move a few inches with each stroke, but the tightness, the squeeze focused the pleasure intensely. Miss Chocolate squirmed under him, her hips rocking in a slow counter rhythm, and he felt her grind against the sheets with a steady pressure. He breathed in her ear.

 

“I want . . . to feel you come, Frango. I want the smell of you . . . all over my sheets—"

 

She groaned, flexing under him a little more quickly, but his weight kept her pinned, and Grissom pushed harder, feeling the hot rise of passion building nicely now, that sweet relentless focus . . ."

 

“Goddddd—" Miss Chocolate whimpered dizzily. The bed creaked a bit under them, and for a long while Grissom lost himself in the sheer delicious lust of stroking into her, hearing the peach-like squelch of her juicy cleft, kissing her shoulder as he mounted her.

 

She clenched the sheets, her fingers digging in with a scrabbling sound and thickly Miss Chocolate groaned, “Nowwww---"

 

Grissom felt it; the quick tight ripples of her climax squeezing his cock in pulses of raw, urgent pleasure; he growled, his teeth against the skin of her shoulder blade as his control broke. He thrust hard and gushed, the searing throbs through his cock so hot and intense that he gasped aloud.

 

It was unreal, and dizzying; Grissom knew in a dim sense that he was probably too heavy, but he couldn’t move; couldn’t breathe for a moment. The overwhelming pleasure crested and began to ebb in slow heartbeats as he lay along Miss Chocolate’s damp spine, trying to catch his breath.

 

He pulled away and rolled off of her, unable to do much more than that for long, quiet moments.

 

Miss Chocolate gave a long, contented sigh and turned her head, looking at him. Grissom opened his eyes to meet hers, and pulled her up against his ribs. He brushed her damp hair away from her face and kissed her as she laughed gently against his mouth. “Good morning.”

 

“Do you love me?” Grissom asked her quietly, searching her eyes.

 

Miss Chocolate stared at him, utterly still.

 

“Only to a depth and degree I can’t ever explain,” she sighed gently.

 

His slow, brilliant smile left her breathless.

 

*** *** ***

 

It was halfway through the second batch of strawberry pancakes that Sara noticed the blinking light on Mr. Peppermint’s answering machine. She pointed to it with a fork as he poured her more orange juice.

 

“Only a few people actually call me here,” he sighed, and went to the machine, pushing the button. A low beep echoed out, and then the soft, hesitant tone of William followed it.

 

“Grissom? Listen, I need to talk to you . . . about Maynard. I’m worried because he doesn’t want to go to the Awards night with me, and I’m going a little crazy here trying to change his mind. He keeps talking about how it’s my big opportunity and jazz, but I think there’s more to it than that. Could you like, call us and maybe talk to him? Man, I can’t even get him to eat my Cheetos tuna casserole he loves so much . . . so, just give us a call, and thanks."

 

The message ended and Sara grinned down into the remaining half of her strawberry pancake as Mr. Peppermint gave another low sigh.

 

“Do much young gay love counseling, do you?” she teased. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were starting to turn up even before he picked up his coffee mug.

 

“Frango . . ."

 

“Because I’m vouching here and now, that you’re far more qualified in the hetero department," she trailed off, grinning at him. He sat across from her at the kitchen table, wrapped in an ancient flannel bathrobe in a soft plaid of greens and blacks.

 

She herself was happily buried in his dress shirt of the night before, which was held closed by a button or two. They’d each awoken with raging appetites, and Mr. Peppermint had put the last of the strawberries to good use, whipping up several fluffy pancakes. Sara sighed, feeling very good, everywhere.

 

“Maynard’s worried about losing William, but he doesn’t want to hold him back,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out after a mouthful of coffee. The heavenly roast of Twenty Blue Devils wafted in the air. Sara nodded.

 

“Sounds about right.”

 

Mr. Peppermint eyed her pancake, and Sara eyed him. Pointedly. “Yes, I’m going to eat that.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“I need the carbohydrates, thanks to you,” she mock-grumbled, “So keep off the plate. These are really good, by the way.”

 

“Thank you,” he shot her a small smile. “So what is your plan for the day?”

 

Sara looked towards the ceiling. “Home, clothes, an hour or two of boat home maintenance, check in with the shop and maybe an afternoon at the dojo. You?”

 

“Bookstore, Candy Shop for whatever lies unfinished, a trip out to see the boys and some range time with Nick and Warrick. I’m rusty on pump action rifles still.”

 

Both of them looked at each other intently, smiling. Sara deliberately cut a section of pancake and held it out to Mr. Peppermint, who bent his head and ate the offered forkful.

 

“Dinner, my place. We’ll grill steak and corn on the deck,” she offered quietly. He gave a blissful sigh and nodded.

 

“I don’t want to spend another night away from you. Here, there—the location doesn’t matter. Time with you—that’s what does.”

 

Sara cocked her head, holding his gaze. “It’s not safe.”

 

“I don’t care,” he told her, and she nodded.


	8. Chapter 8

Funland wasn’t. The dead, defunct amusement park sat in the hot sunshine just west of Las Vegas, along the highway between stops, rusting and harboring all sorts of vermin. It looked like precisely the sort of place where a careless person could pick up anything from tetanus to rabies, and as Mel looked at it through the rusting chain link fence, she bit back her disgust.

 

The car passed through the open gate and parked a few feet inside.

 

“This is a new low,” she commented.

 

Bruce Eiger climbed out of the car and glanced around, shrugging. “Disneyland it ain’t." To his bodyguard he added, “You see that asshole Connie anywhere?”

 

“Tire tracks this way," Vinnie reported, pointing with his chin towards the midway. Eiger paused to light a cigar and snorted.

 

“Good job, Tonto—now go chase him down and get him out here, because I’m not hanging around this turd pile any longer than I have to.”

 

The bodyguard moved off, lumbering along the dusty thoroughfare, grumbling under his breath. Mel stretched a little, wishing for the millionth time that she was home, and in a tub. Bad enough to have to hang out with Bruce Eiger for the better part of an entire twenty-four hours, but she hated the stiffness in her joints from sleeping on the couch and she would have _killed_ for a shower.

 

“I should renovate this place; turn it into one of those wireless cafes with video games,” Eiger mused. “Bet I could get some of those long-haul truckers to blow some change before they even get to Vegas."

 

Melanie said nothing, yawning.

 

After a few moments they both heard footsteps, and spotted the bodyguard coming back, pushing Conrad Ecklie ahead of him with a rough hand every few steps or so. Ecklie was still wearing his coveralls and looked flushed and sweaty.

 

Mel took a step forward, but Eiger made a grunt deep in his throat. “Not yet, Melly girl. Sooo, Connie. Talk to me,” he ordered.

 

“Mel, are you _okay_ sweetheart?” Ecklie called, his focus on the tiny woman. She nodded, and that reassurance visibly loosened his tension; he stepped closer and shifted his gaze reluctantly to Bruce Eiger. “What do you want me to say?”

 

“Hold it—you frisk him?” Eiger demanded of Vinnie, who nodded. He relaxed and leaned against the side of the car. “Okay, lay it out for me from the beginning, Conrad—what did you do?”

 

The thin bald man shifted uneasily, his shoulders hunched. “Oh come on, Bruce, you _know_ what I did. I picked up the goods from Samson and put it together. I took the package in on my break. Taped it to the inside of the chemical supply closet, just like you told me to, and got the hell out of there. When I was in the lot I hit the rigged button on my cell and the place . . . . blew,” he finished, his voice thin and unhappy.

 

There was a pause. Eiger puffed his cigar as nobody spoke for a moment.

 

“And now you’re saying you made more than _one_ bomb?” he prompted.

 

Ecklie nodded, slowly. Mel sucked in a hurt breath, blinking. Eiger pulled his cigar out and examined it for a moment, then laughed. The sound carried; a delighted rumble of genuine amusement, echoing around the empty buildings surrounding them.

 

“I do not fucking _believe_ you, Con. I mean come on—you? What the hell would be your point?”

 

“The point is I’m not going to be your scapegoat unless I get something _out_ of it, Bruce. And I’m not talking for me,” Ecklie replied, licking his lips.

 

“Con—" Mel broke in, but Bruce cut her off, waving his cigar.

 

“Oh I get it, Connie, I get it. You’re a family man and all now, gotta make sure Mel and Junior are provided for—no diagrams needed there. No, I mean I don’t believe you made another _bomb_. The cops would have never let you go—you’d have that whattayacall it—residue on you. All kinds of CSI shit, you know? They test eighteen ways to Sunday for that crap.”

 

“They talked to me, tested me. They got _nothing_ , Bruce,” Ecklie muttered. “Lupe and I switched mopping duty but they don’t know that. They think _she_ was the one cleaning near the chemical closet.”

 

“And she won’t talk?”

 

“She can’t. Got a piece of drywall in her skull. She barely remembers her own _name_ , and in any case her English was always pretty rotten,” Ecklie snapped, then softened. “She was a good woman.”

 

“Boo hoo. Where the hell did you _go_ after the bomb?” Eiger demanded more sharply now. Ecklie sighed, shifting his gaze to Mel.

 

“I went to the Sirocco, hung around the five dollar slots for a few hours. Tried to call Mel. Had a drink at the bar, but when they started running the story I left. Went to Mel’s but nobody was there, so I went in to the police station and talked to them for the rest of the night.”

 

“Show me your hands,” Eiger ordered. Ecklie held them out, palms up; the faint traces of ink still on his fingertips. Eiger grunted.

 

“So far so good—you’re not bullshitting me yet. Rick O says he’s got tape of you at the Sirocco. So what’s all this crap about _another_ bomb?”

“I made another one,” Ecklie repeated, a little more slowly this time. “It wasn’t hard, not after Samson showed me how.” 

Eiger wiped his forehead with the back of one meaty hand. The heat was getting more intense, and even with sunglasses the glare hurt. “If the only places you went were the Sirocco and Mel’s, then where the fuck did you _put_ it?” 

“My place,” Ecklie confessed. “I figured if you screwed me over I could set it off, and the cops would trace it back to you . . . eventually.” 

Eiger gave a thoughtful nod. “I gotta hand it to you Connie, you got balls. You love her that _much_?” 

Ecklie nodded, shifting his weight and looking at Melanie. Bruce sighed heavily. He patted Mel’s shoulder, giving her a little nudge towards the other man. “Geez, fine. Okay Con, you’re on the team. Go take apart your bomb and I’ll have some of the boys set you up with something a little more legit on top. Think you could run a front office?” 

“Yes,” Ecklie replied firmly as Melanie slipped her arms around his hips, hugging him gently. Eiger watched them for a moment, then tossed his cigar down into the dusty dirt and stomped on it. 

“Fine,” he repeated. “But if I find you’ve fucked me over in any way, Connie, there won’t be enough of you left to stick in a matchbox. Right now the cops have lost the goods on about fifty percent of their current cases, and that gives me some breathing room, so I can afford to be a little generous here. Why don’t you and Mel here take a few days off, sleep in.” 

“The police don’t want me to leave town,” Ecklie interjected, but Eiger had already turned and started climbing into his car. His voice carried over his shoulder. 

“So don’t. And stay away from any media assholes too.” 

The bodyguard moved to the driver’s seat and slid in, starting up the engine and pulling the car away from the rusted buildings of Funland. Ecklie and Mel watched it move to the highway and turn onto it, heading back to Vegas. When it was out of sight, Mel sighed and looked up at him. “Talk to me, Conrad—what did you _really_ do?” 

Ecklie turned and dropped to his knees. He did so un-selfconsciously, his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes, searching her face. “Mel—you ever hear that old saying about selling your soul to the devil?” 

She nodded, slowly. 

He sighed. “What do you call it when you sell it to an avenging angel?” 

_*** *** ***_

Miss Lollipop stood at the edge of the building, looking down onto the street far below. The heat of the afternoon made everything shimmer in the haze, and she felt the updraft rise, making her skirt flutter. Through her dark sunglasses, she noted the panoramic view of the south end of Las Vegas, and beyond it, the scrub of the desert. 

She heard him moving behind her and waited until her peripheral vision spotted him shifting next to her before turning to look at him. 

“Hot,” he offered quietly. She gave a little shrug. 

“Equatorial deserts are,” came her counter call. He relaxed on his crutches and turned his face, his expression amused. 

“All right my dear, you called his meeting, so can we at least adjourn to the shade side of this place?” 

She nodded and they turned, walking slowly to the covered doorway that led to the roof. Miss Lollipop spoke first. “Ecklie wants to cooperate.” 

“Excellent. An inside man on Eiger is great work. Who’ll run him?” 

“I thought I’d be the carrot, with Jawbreaker and Licorice as the sticks, if needed.” 

“Sounds good—you’re sure of his loyalty?” came the question. Miss Lollipop pursed her pretty mouth before replying. 

“It’s a gamble,” she confessed. “If he didn’t have the woman and child to consider, I’d say no, but at the moment they’re the key, and I think he’s sincere in his desire to provide for them.” 

They reached the doorway; the man used one of his canes to push the door open for Miss Lollipop, then followed her into the deserted landing at the stop of the stairs. Near them, the closed doors of the roof access elevator rumbled. The bearded man looked at her keenly, his blue eyes scanning her face. “Tell me the rest of it.” 

“The Peppermint and Chocolate affair seems to have accelerated,” Miss Lollipop acknowledged with a tiny smile. “I have reason to believe that they took vacation time together and are spending their off-duty hours in each others company. It’s just about time to put them through the final test, Mr. S.” 

“Then by all means, I’ll make the arrangements,” he chuckled. “Although I’m fairly sure we both have a good idea of the outcome.” 

“If I know Grissom—and I’m confident in my assessment—then he’ll balk. He won’t come out and say anything directly, but the intricate circuitry of his mind will shift into overdrive to figure out how to change the parameters, legitimately and clandestinely. Count on it,” Miss Lollipop replied with affection. She hesitated, and added, “Just the way _I’m_ doing.” 

“Sugar Daddy,” came the soft gloat. “You can’t tell me you were _surprised_ , my dear.” 

“Not by him,” she admitted gently, lifting her face. “But by myself. I never knew how much I loved him _already_. Not until after the funeral home.” 

“Ah,” came the soft little response. 

Miss Lollipop shivered a little, her self-control slipping fractionally before she squared her shoulders and attempted a smile, but the man shifted one cane to his other arm, freeing a hand. 

He cupped her cheek in a paternal gesture of affection, studying her face, then spoke again. “Heather—you’ve been working with broken people for a long time and you’ve known what it takes to bring them back from the edge. Now you’ve been out to that edge yourself—don’t think any worse of yourself for needing someone too.” 

She blinked a little, looking bleak for just a moment, then gave a twisted smile, her beautiful mouth quivering slightly. “It’s been quite a personal revelation, this _hypocrisy_ , Mr. S. Assuming I had everything under control, and believing I could handle Pertonelli’s molestation simply because I knew ahead of time that it was going to happen.” 

“You took a risk,” Mr. S. gently reminded her, “A risk you wouldn’t let anyone else take. For that alone, you’re an amazing woman.” 

“Am I? Because at times all I see is a leader so arrogantly confident . . ." 

“--Confident, yes. Arrogant, never. Your team trusts you and more to the point, they believe in you,” he interjected. “I believe in you. And Sugar Daddy has his heart invested in you. You’ve earned all that, Heather, please—take comfort in it.” 

She shifted to hug him, clutching him tightly as he stroked her back and held her until he felt her collect herself. When she pulled away her mascara was a little mussed, but her smile was much more solid. Mr. S handed her a handkerchief from his pocket and she dabbed her eyes gently. “Thank you.” 

“Thank _you_. Without your brilliant guidance, this project would have never gotten off the ground, and a lot of good people would be in jail or dead. So let’s buck up and think ahead. What will you do with Ecklie on the payroll?” 

“Monitor Eiger of course. Also, I’ve received a disturbing call from Catherine Willows—she was in a minor hit and run that she feels might have been instigated. One of our local DC part-time agents can investigate that. The Senator is here in Las Vegas and it’s my understanding that he’s been seen with Lois O’Neill lately--that needs to be looked into. Oh! And Ms. MacDonald has received death threats for her latest movie.” 

Mr. S. fought a smirk. “Ah yes, the Starship Intercourse—stirred up the wrath of the anti-gay crusaders?” 

“No, Trekkers, apparently,” Miss Lollipop sighed. “Something about the defamation of the franchise and promotion of slash culture. Anthropologically fascinating, but I _am_ concerned for Macy’s safety.” 

“There’s our test,” Mr. S pointed out. “Assign Miss Chocolate as bodyguard to Macy, and we’ll see precisely how Mr. Peppermint handles her being in the line of fire.” 

Miss Lollipop hesitated. “Do you think it’s a good idea? I’d planned to put him next to Macy.” 

“I think my way,” Mr. S. shifted and used the tip of his cane to poke the down button for the elevator, “—Is a more accurate test of his commitment to his partner.” 

_*** *** ***_

Catherine opened her eyes, trying to focus. The world was pleasantly numb for the moment, and she wasn’t sure if it was early in the morning or late at night—the light coming through the bedroom windows was dim. She rolled over to stare at the clock. 

Nearly six . . . AM or PM, one of the two. 

Catherine sat up, struggling to do so. The accident had been nearly a week and a half ago; a hard fender bender that had left her with a black eye from the airbag and some hard bruises along her ribs from the seatbelt. She’d snapped a bone in her wrist as well, and that was still bandaged. 

A car out of nowhere, barreling down on her as she turned onto her street, speeding along at a clip fast enough to take out both her headlights and rip half the bumper off. Sam had called, full of condolences and promised he’d try to get away to see her. 

She’d politely told him to stay in Vegas. 

It hadn’t been too bad—sure she was hurting, but Lindsay was still at Doctor Marazek’s ranch, and the cops here in DC had assured her that they’d be able to track down the car fairly soon. She’d been checked out by the doctors and given enough Percodan to sleep comfortably. 

And she’d slept, hoo boy, had she slept. Woken, answered phone messages, signed for flowers, taken her meds and slept some more. Had dreams too, weird lovely ones with Eddie’s ghost and little bits of photos and film fluttering everywhere. 

Sometimes other faces showed up too—Mr. Grissom’s for one, and Lindsay. Once, she dreamed of the homeless veteran who’d kissed her so passionately . . . she’d woken up shaking, all too aroused for her own good and felt sluggish for the rest of the day. 

It was hard to get through the days, and Catherine struggled to get back to her routine. She’d been working quietly on the move to Las Vegas, but with her head feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton all the time it was nearly impossible to concentrate. If Mira the housekeeper noticed, she said nothing, and finally Catherine put in a call to Heather, hoping for a little reassurance. Heather sounded concerned and told her to expect someone to check on her. 

Catherine wondered dizzily who Heather would send. She got up from the bed and wandered over to the vanity, looking at herself in the mirror. Ooooh, scary. Her hair was unbrushed and tangled; her lipstick was smeared wildly, and she was half-undressed in a push-up bra and her black Dior skirt—had she been to the Art Docent luncheon or not? 

Downstairs the doorbell rang, and after a while Catherine went to answer it, realizing it must be six PM and Mira would be gone. She clung to the banister as she stumbled downstairs, and peeked through the spy hole to see who was on the porch. 

A man. A man with a big black mustache and a clipboard. Great. A pollster . . . Catherine sighed and reluctantly opened the door and leaned out. “Look, this is a Senator’s house, so you reeeeally don’t want to know my opinion on any issues, all right?” 

“Mrs. Willows?” the man muttered, and she recognized the voice, oh yes; the last time she’d heard it, it had been singing Rolling Stones tunes to her . . . Catherine blinked, staring hard at the man. He stepped closer, blocking her from the view of the empty street behind him, and spoke softly. 

“You . . . don’t look so good, if you don’t mind my saying.” 

“And you’re _that_ guy. The one at the bank who kissed me,” she accused, feeling her face flush. He had short dark hair now, but the same impish eyes. He wasn’t this time, smiling though, and she gripped the door frame as another wave of dizziness hit her. 

“Yes ma’am. Line of duty. Let me help you inside," he murmured, and gently pushed Catherine back, following her inside and closing the door behind him. Catherine staggered a little, but he caught her elbow and steadied her. “Have you had something to drink?” 

“No. I’m taking painkillers, so it would be stupid to drink," she snapped, feeling frustrated. If this was Heather’s idea of help— 

“Show me,” he ordered. 

She glared at him. “Hey! What are you doing in my house?” 

“Trying to help. What are you taking?” he repeated, steering her through the living room and towards the kitchen. Catherine realized she was in her bra and feebly attempted to cover herself, but the man was more focused on their destination. They reached the kitchen, and Catherine picked up her pills from the windowsill over the sink, holding the bottle out to him reluctantly. 

“Percodan. I was in a traffic accident a while ago. Broke my wrist.” 

“I heard. I’m sorry. Crap--we have a _problem_ here, Ms. Willows,” he replied tersely, examining the bottle and shaking out a few pills. Catherine blinked at him and he held one up. “The label here says you’re supposed to be getting a ten milligram dose; however, the pills in the bottle are eighty milligrams.” 

“What?” She blinked, reaching for the bottle. The man pulled it back out of reach and pocketed it. He pulled out a cell phone and hit a few buttons, then snapped it shut and grimaced at Catherine. 

His eyes were sad. “Ms Willows, you’re going to need to come with me. This isn’t going to be fun. Not at all.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, quietly. He sat in one of the rickety folding chairs in the apartment kitchen, trying to figure out precisely what to say to the two men on either end of the tiny room. He took a deep breath and looked from William to Maynard and back again. “Gentlemen . . ."

 

“Oh come on, Grissom, that’s way too formal. A simple ‘guys’ would work better,” William grumbled. He had his lean arms crossed protectively across his chest, and his body language indicated a high level of impatience. Tellingly, he was leaning towards Maynard though, and kept glancing in his direction as well.

 

Maynard towered at the sink, blocking the light from the window. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and kept flexing them gently. Each fist he made was the size of a small cannonball. He looked at Grissom reluctantly.

 

“Gentlemen,” Grissom repeated more firmly. “I can’t help you solve a problem if neither of you is going to do any talking. William, you were the one to call me, so tell me again exactly what the issue is, and please—“ he held up a warning hand, “—if it has something to do with your sex lives, I’m not going to be much help.”

 

William gave a noisy sigh and waved an arm towards Maynard. “Fine. My gorgeous roommate doesn’t want to go with me to the Stiffy Awards.”

 

Grissom looked over at Maynard, who gave a miserable little shrug. “Maynard?” he prompted gently, trying to remember how Miss Lollipop did this sort of persuasion.

 

The huge blonde cleared his throat noisily. “Aw come on—it’s going to be crowded and noisy and long, you know? And I look Godawful in a tux—like some bouncer gorilla type.”

 

“Not true," William growled, his tone both impatient and slightly depressed. “You’re going to look like the über hot Norseman hunk that you are, okay?”

 

Grissom bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Maynard go pink and shoot his partner an embarrassed look.

 

“That’s really sweet of you to say, babe, but I’m serious about this. I just don’t think it’s . . . wise . . . for me—or you--to go.”

 

“Maynard! I’m gonna be miserable if you aren’t there with me! We were BOTH in the movie, and we’re in this together," William snapped, but Grissom was thinking hard. He spoke softly, interrupting as he did so.

 

“Excuse me. Maynard, you said ‘wise’. You said that you didn’t think it was ‘wise’ to go. Why?”

 

“Why what?” Maynard looked distinctly wary. Grissom rose from the rickety chair and leaned against the wall, keeping his gaze on the big man.

 

“Why ‘wise?’ That implies a judgment call of some sort. The Stiffies are one of the few public celebrations of sexual diversity and creativity, Maynard. Neither you nor William have a problem with either one of those . . . so what’s _really_ holding you back?”

 

William looked at Grissom with a glance of respectful appreciation, and then shifted to stand next to Maynard, letting his shoulder brush against his partner in a gentle way. For a moment none of them spoke, and then Maynard closed his eyes. “Ding dang it! Look, I’m not the smartest guy around, and I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I’m sure as heck not going to put _you_ in danger if I can help it, Will! Geez, ya mean the world to me!”

 

“Love you too, May, but—clarification, please?” William replied in a low voice. Maynard flicked his long hair back over his shoulders and sighed. He ambled over to the refrigerator and reached up on the top of it, pulling out a tiny cassette tape—the sort used in older telephone answering machines. Grissom watched as he popped it into the one on the kitchen counter near the wall and hit ‘play’.

 

The hiss of old static filled the room, followed by a voice—it was high-pitched and in any other context would have been laughably funny since the speaker had obviously taken several hits of helium before talking. The squeaky indignant tone filled the kitchen.

 

“Greetings, you piles of Sehlat crap! You two so-called thespians have disgraced the magnificent universe of the Great Bird of the Galaxy’s Federation! You’ve MOCKED the venerated archtype that Kirk represents and turned his noble nemesis the Klingon into, into some sort of FREAK LeatherDaddy! Your onscreen filth is NOT what Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations is supposed to MEAN, you frakking Tribblemunchers! Therefore—" There was a pause and the hiss of a balloon. The voice came back, higher and squeakier than before, “I fully intend to do something about it! Make no mistake; if either of you show up at that disgusting Awards show, we’ll see what color blood you’ve got. Trekkers In Total Solidarity will not tolerate this lampoonery of any kind! Live short and prosper—NOT!”

 

The message clicked off, and seconds later, the peal of William’s laughter filled the kitchen, bubbling out of him as he pressed his forehead to Maynard’s shoulder. Maynard wasn’t laughing, but Grissom grinned and came over to the phone, popping the tape out again. “Well. That was . . . odd.”

 

“It’s a DEATH threat, Grissom! So I figured I’d pretend to get sick on the night of the Awards and keep William at home with me . . . stop laughing, Will, that guy was serious!”

 

William laughed again, turning his face up to the taller man.“Sweet Stuff, you were scared by a group with the acronym of TITS, for God’s sake! It’s a joke, all right? Some self-righteous fanboy with Next Generation Underoos and a Bird of Prey nightlight is playing mind games.”

 

Helplessly Maynard looked at Grissom, who cocked his head thoughtfully. “Is he right?”

 

“Maynard—in this world there are a LOT of . . . interesting people. Some of them collect leaves, some of them compete in Tri-athalons and some of them tape all the episodes of Little House on the Prairie. Most people aren’t about to harm other folks, and even the ones who get indignant about their passions often simply vent and that’s enough. Now having said that, if you want to go to the police and at least let them know that you’ve received a threat, I think that’s a wise move,” Grissom pointed out quietly.

 

“Really?” Maynard asked, slightly relieved.

 

William rolled his eyes. “Oh sure. The cops are going to take this very seriously, May. I’m sure they’ll probably want to beam us into protective custody while they send a Security team to pick up Ensign Redshirt McNutcake there.”

 

Even Maynard couldn’t keep a completely worried expression at William’s teasing tone, but Grissom held the tape up in his fingers, looking at it thoughtfully. “Up to you, but simply because there will be quite a number of people at the ceremony, including Ms. Sidle and myself, it might be worth at least filing a report over the phone. And if you don’t mind, I can take this in to a friend of mine who’s not only an audio wizard, but a Trekker himself to boot. Maybe he’ll know something from the context.”

 

“Sure,” William waved a hand; Maynard nodded. Grissom pocketed the little tape and looked back at the two men, who both seemed far more relaxed now.

 

William was smiling, his dimples deep. “So—despite the indignant squawkings of one balloon-sucking doofus, will you please come with me to the Fifth Annual Stiffies, Maynard Ryquist? I want to see you in a nice St. Laurent tux with a matching black shirt—something open collar to set off your gorgeous hair."

 

“You’re embarrassing me," Maynard protested weakly, sliding one muscled arm around Will’s shoulders and kissing him on the top of his head. Will snorted, perfectly comfortable in the embrace.

 

“So I take it you’ll both be showing up?” Grissom asked.

 

Will nodded; Maynard gave a resigned shrug, hugging his partner before gently letting him go. “As long as Will’s not in any danger."

 

“Me? Hey, YOU’RE a target too, and a waaaaay bigger one I might add!”

 

“Yeah, but I can look out for myself,” Maynard rumbled. “Not that I’m bringing up which one of us was nearly the star of snuff film or anything."

 

“That was _one_ time!” William huffed, tossing his long curls out of his eyes. “Geez! Could have happened to anyone!”

 

At that, both Grissom and Maynard stared at him; William sighed a little deflating. “Okay, maybe not _anyone_ , but you made a good point, Grissom—with that many people around, this guy can’t be serious, now is he? The Topsy Turvy Casino’s main room seats like, seven hundred.”

 

“It’s a big space, and they’re going to have top notch security,” Grissom agreed. “Mostly for the media control.”

 

“And you and Sara will be there—that clinches it for me,” Will nodded. “The Adult cable channels are going to carry it live too—it’s going to be really big, and therefore probably more secure than the two of us sitting here at home in an apartment anybody could break into.”

 

Maynard gave a slow nod. “It would be really cool to see you win, Will. Pick up a trophy, maybe sing the love theme with a live band behind you this time instead of a recording.”

 

Will ducked his head shyly. “Win—maybe. But a night out—and I do mean _out_ ,you know? That would mean a lot to me, Maynard.”

 

“Okaaay. But I don’t think we’re gonna find a tux in my size,” Maynard pointed out regretfully. “I tend to be a bit—husky.”

 

“Oh I know an excellent tailor,” Grissom told him with a kind smile. “And she loves to work her magic. You two, show up at the bookstore tomorrow around noon, and we’ll get you fitted right.”

 

“You’re serious?” Will beamed, dimples going deep again.

 

Grissom nodded. “Absolutely. You both were invaluable in helping find a murderer, so this is the least I can to help out. Besides, Starship Intercourse is up for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Use of Liquid Latex in an Orgy—we all want to be there for the wins, don’t we?”

 

“They don’t say ‘win’ anymore, Grissom—they say ‘The Stiffy goes to,’” Maynard corrected, and the other two laughed.

 

*** *** ***

 

Sara stared again at the teapot on the table, unable to take her gaze from it. The sleek torso-shaped chrome pot had a spout shaped like an erection—a sizable erection at that—and two heavy rounded orbs under it, balancing the base. On her right, Macy MacDonald laughed and waved her bangle covered arm. “Woo! My kind of tea set. Like Alice in Wonderland on Viagra.”

 

“It’s not one I would use with any other company but the present,” Miss Lollipop admitted somewhat primly. She poured, filling the cups that were shaped like nude female torsos, and handed them to Sara and Macy. The three of them were sitting around the small table on the balcony of the Truman Tower, overlooking the view of Las Vegas far below. Sara stared at the teapot spout for a moment longer, feeling a bit of a blush on her face as she watched steam rise from the tip.

 

Memories.

 

Macy MacDonald took a long sip and sighed before speaking. “All right, I agreed to this pow-wow because I want a solution to this threat situation, Heather. Me, I don’t think it’s serious, and if it was just against myself I’d shrug it off, but it’s not.”

 

“I know—Daniel and Frances have mentioned receiving threats as well, along with other personnel out at Tia Carumba. I’m sure William and Maynard have too, which is why I’m assigning you, Miss Chocolate, as Macy’s bodyguard for the awards show.”

 

“Bodyguard?” Sara mused, a smile creeping across her face. “I can do that, no problem.”

 

“Excellent,” Miss Lollipop smiled. “Mr. Peppermint will be there of course as Laird Donovan, so you’ll be flanked by two of my best, Macy. That ought to afford your some sense of confidence.”

 

Macy MacDonald grinned. “I SO dig this spy shit you have going, Heather, it’s ultra-mondo. Yeah, I feel better. I’d feel GREAT if I could rely on the cops picking up the wacko making the threats, but seeing how they already have their hands full at the moment with that bombing, I’m not counting on it.” With a little toss of her head, she took a sip from her cup and leaned back to look at Sara.

 

“I’m glad you’re not just dismissing the threat though—too often people do, and regret it later,” Sara commented quietly. Macy gave a little grunt.

 

“Yeah, well it’s not me, it’s the other people, good people in this profession that I don’t want to see get hurt. Not everyone supports the adult movie industry.”

 

“Enough do to make it a profitable venture though, and your . . . exposure this weekend will certainly be well attended. The Topsy Turvy casino is completely booked,” Miss Lollipop remarked.

 

“All the more reason to play it safe. So, bodyguard, have I got an outfit for you,”Macy teased. “Something that will keep the attention off of me, that’s for sure. You up for it?”

 

“Depends,” Sara commented cautiously. “I’d like to have enough on to hide a weapon or two.”

 

Macy’s expression stayed mischievous; she laughed in a sultry way, her bangle bracelets jangling as she waved her teacup. “Maybe on the bottom half—let’s not forget our audience out there.”

 

“Agreed,” Miss Lollipop managed a smirk that was both gentle and knowing at the same time. “And since we can’t discount this Trekkers in Total Solidarity group from making a preemptive strike, I think it would be best if Miss Chocolate stayed with you from now until the Awards show tomorrow night.”

 

“TITS,” Macy laughed again raising her teacup in mock-salute, “Yeah, well this woman’s never been afraid of _those_ , trust me!”

“Boobs, more like,” Sara agreed, “But better to be safe than sorry.” 

“Yes, so that’s settled. Would anyone like a strawberry tart?” Miss Lollipop offered, letting her gaze meet Sara’s for a moment. 

_*** *** ***_

Senator Sam Braun shifted on the sofa, scowling as he glanced over the files piled high on the coffee table in front of him. At his ear, the voice from cell phone spoke again. 

“It’s suspicious as hell, Senator, and I’m still looking, but I think you ought to get someone to watch the airport and see if she’s coming into Vegas.” 

“Damn it, Sofia, I thought you had her hooked! Given what’s been in her system for the past week and a half, Mugsy shouldn’t even be able to stand _up_ , let alone disappear!” Sam growled, flipping open a brief on railway reforms. He skimmed it and initialed the bottom, along with a note as he listened. 

“She was—IS—hooked, and wherever she went, she took her prescription with her. Right now I’ve got my sources at the hospitals and police departments looking, but in the last day and a half, nobody’s reported a Jane Doe that matches her,” came the discouraged reply. 

Braun sighed, flipped the file closed and tossed it aside. “You filed a missing persons report yet on my behalf?” 

“Not yet. PR-wise it would be better if you did it yourself, but I’d give it a few more hours.” 

“Think somebody grabbed her?” Braun asked absently, looking over a budget sheet in another folder. He glanced up briefly at the television, admiring the sensual gyrations of the two young men making love on the screen. 

“Not officially. I don’t think it’s a kidnapping because her purse is still here, along with the car. If anything, it looks like she might have just wandered off, and if that’s the case then yeah, she might have been picked up by someone cruising by. This could play out any number of ways, Sam, and I need you to be ready to go grieving father at a moment’s notice.” 

“You leave that to me. What about Lindsay? The press is going to want to know where she is,” Braun groused. 

“Still holed up on that private ranch north of you—seems to be doing okay from what little the reports tell me. In any case, she’s fine where she is at the moment—it’s _Catherine_ we’ve got to locate.” 

“Do it then. Let me know if you find her, and if you don’t in the next two hours I’m going to HAVE to file a report if I want to look like the loving, caring father that the voters think I am. Paperwork is such a whoremother.” 

“Ah . . . yeah,” came the dry reply. “Whatever, Sam. Where will you be in the next two days?” 

"Got a speech at the local chapter of the VA to give, and a dinner with some local level constituents. Tomorrow is the dedication of the new fire station out in Lake Mead, and that damned call in radio interview. After that I’m gonna plant my ass at home and watch the Stiffys on cable—got a problem with that?” 

“Nice to see you supporting the Arts,” Sofia shot back. 

Braun laughed, a low mirthless chuckle. “Oh I’m all about freedom of creative expression. Call me when you have something worth telling me.” 

He snapped the phone shut and scowled at it, then reached for the remote. 


	10. Chapter 10

The Topsy Turvy Casino was popular for a number of reasons above and beyond their generous slot machines and poker games in the main salon. Although many gambling establishments in Vegas had themes, and entertained the whims of their customers, the Topsy Turvy was one of the few ventures bold enough to cater to the LGBTQAI crowd and win them, mostly through clever and sincere advertising. Their service was prompt and discreet; they catered to all sorts of private accommodations; their dinner show featured the most beautiful transgender chorus line in all of Las Vegas, and the saucy review, “Bottoms Up!” had been running for nearly six years now.

 

Naturally, when the bid came for hosting the Stiffy Awards half a decade earlier, The Topsy Turvy had gone after it as aggressively as a crocodile cruising for ducklings, and with exactly the same sort of swift success. Five years later, the Stiffies were openly acknowledged as a time-honored feature event on the Topsy Turvy calendar, much to the delight of the casino owners. The advertising, the reservations, the broadcast rights—all of it added up to make a hefty profit for the casino on an annual basis.

 

Most of the production team for the Stiffy Awards had been working together for several other presentations, and generally the set-up and rehearsals were already well-orchestrated. The show’s director/producer, Luke Lambe, had been running it with smooth confidence the past three years and had this year’s event well in-hand. The only burr under the saddle was Owen Kornpett, Masterboard programmer and disgruntled nerd.

 

Owen was two years new to the Topsy Turvy, and generally ignorable. He did his job competently, and didn’t seem to mind working odd shifts, but the man’s devotion to science fiction set him apart from the crowd—and at a place like the Topsy Turvy, it took a LOT for that to be obvious.

 

Luke had an inkling of this obsession when during his interview, Owen asked repeatedly about Star Trek conventions being booked at the casino.

 

Nevertheless, Owen Kornpett was hired, and now ran the masterboard for the lights, curtains and music in the Topsy Turvy’s auditorium, Montgomery Hall, more affectionately known as the Full Monty Hall. He was attentive to his cue sheets and reliable in his own nebbish little way. Most of the other employees got along with him, but nobody socialized with him much—any private non-work related conversation ended up turning to Star Trek, and after the first few times, the backstage crew of Monty Hall had learned to escape back to work.

 

At the moment, Luke couldn’t escape though—he was working out the choreography for the dancing dildos number for the Fifth Annual Stiffy Awards, frustrated because Owen wasn’t at his station in the glass booth far at the back of the auditorium, ready to write the cues. Luke gritted his startlingly white teeth and barked into his headset once more.

 

“Owen? Where the hell ARE you?”

 

No answer. Next to Luke a chorine in a tall pink dildo costume was tugging his sleeve. “Luke, the girls asked me to ask you if we can all sit down for a moment—these heels are murder!” she pleaded in a deep voice. Luke gave an absent nod to her.

 

“Sure honey—Owen, if you’re there, say something, because I swear to GOD I’m about three seconds from firing you—"

 

“Kornpett here. Sorry, I had to visit the little Captain’s room.”

 

Luke squinted up through the bright lights towards the back of the auditorium. “Oh goodie. If your personal phaser is all discharged, can we get back to work, please?”

 

A non-committal grunt came back through the headset, and Luke turned his attention back to the latex lovelies now draped on the edge of the stage.  
They were all roughly the same shape—cylindrical—but in a bright hue of colors. A few had bumps and glitter as well.

 

“All right my darlings, let’s see if we can’t showcase you properly, Hmmm? Just be thankful this interlude is only two minutes long.”

 

“That’s about average for a session with a dildo,” one voice hooted back. Luke snorted.

 

“Trying to tell us something Ralphe-Lucille?” Laughter greeted this question, and in the moment of goodwill, he forged on. “I want to get this blocked out so we can move to the other presentations and you sweet lot can get out of those costumes. Lord knows I don’t want any gypsy of mine passing out in a dildo suit, all right?”

 

“Luuuke, my boyfriend wants me to wear this home!" another voice called out teasingly as the chorus line rose and began to move back into place. Luke sucked in his cheeks, then gave up and grinned.

 

“Maybe after the show, Suzette . . . okay, darlings, moving on—Owen, you with us?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. We’re going with soft lavender mood lighting, and spotlights on the leads for this first number, and then we’ll bring up the house lights for the Best Of Categories. Got that?”

 

“Got it. What’s the music notation?”

 

“We’re fading out of ‘I Touch Myself’ and going into the award theme at that point. Then, after the Best Of Categories, it’s time for the Best Picture montage, with clips from each nominee, and back up to the crystal podium. I bet I know which movie _you’re_ rooting for.”

 

A sharp flare of squealing feedback made Luke jump; he pulled his headset off and rubbed his ears, frowning. “Damn it, Owen, you could have deafened me!”

 

“Sorry,” came the flat and unconvincing apology. Luke glared up at the booth, saying nothing, and feeling part of the good mood of a few moments before fade away.

 

“Right. Let’s not let anything happen during the show then—okay darlings, move your phallic fannies and let’s see some dancing dildoes!”

 

*** *** ***

 

The phone conversation that night was languid and gentle.

 

“—So I have to stay with Macy. I’m sorry.”

 

“I know. It’s logical and wise, but I’m not happy about it.”

 

“Me either. I was really looking forward to your hibatchi skills on my, ah, corn.”

 

“That sounds so—appetizing, Frango. On many levels.”

 

“Yeah. So I guess we’ll meet up at the Awards ceremony. Are you coming with William and Maynard?”

 

“That’s the plan for the moment. My mother has managed to alter a tux for Maynard, and they’re getting along extremely well. Almost too well.”

 

“Afraid of being supplanted?”

 

“Of gaining a brother by adoption, although because of the two of you, some of the pressure is off me now.”

 

“What does your mother know about me?”

 

“That you’re extremely beautiful and that I’m terribly in love with you.”

 

“Ohh.”

 

“And that I intend on bringing you to dinner with her at some point in the future."

 

“Ohh.”

 

“The _distant_ future. For now she’s much too busy having Maynard and William over for dinner. We may end up having to make an appointment if we want to get in to see her.”

 

“That busy—um, does your mother know why the boys need tuxes?”

 

“She does, but she doesn’t have Pay Per View and has told them she’ll settle for some nice photos from the event. Speaking of which, what will you be wearing?”

 

“Well, since Macy’s dressing me, as little as possible, apparently. Did you just whimper?”

 

“I . . . yes. Yes I did.”

 

“I thought so. It’s a very gratifying sound, Mr. Peppermint.”

 

“I have better ways of giving you gratification, Miss Chocolate.”

 

“You do at that, and we’ll discuss them tomorrow when we meet up backstage. I’m looking forward to draping myself allll over Laird Donovan.”

 

“Be careful, or the viewing audience might be witnesses to the first on-air sexual re-orientation in history. I’m good at creating a persona, but it’s just an illusion—underneath I’m still very much . . . me.”

 

“Mmmm, yes I know. That’s why peeling back the layers is so deliciously fun. Look for me; I’ll be wearing pearls—goodnight my love.”

 

“I’ll be there. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Jaw Breaker tugged at his bow tie once more, wishing it was a tiny bit looser. Next to him, Licorice looked cool and confident; a glamorous figure in well-cut lines. “I hate you.”

 

“That’s because you didn’t listen to Miss L and put off your fitting until this morning. Your own problem, Nick, not mine. Have you seen some of the fine women at this thing?” came the calm reply. Jaw Breaker flexed his shoulders a little and gave a nod, grinning.

 

“There’s a lot to see, I’ll grant you that. Karla KaBoom, Little Missy Wang-Rider, Sola Mio—all the biggest names showing up.”

 

“Legends, man, legends. It’s like the entire history of the adult film industry on parade,” Licorice commented, looking around.

 

The lobby of Full Monty Hall was packed, and the constant twinkle of flashing bulbs gave another layer of shine to the ensemble of well-dressed men and flamboyant women who stood mingling and drinking champagne. The sounds of conversation and laughter drifted and blended with the soft strains of light jazz from the trio at the end of the room. Licorice and Jaw Breaker were standing at the other, constantly sweeping the room and turning down the offers of Moet & Chandon. From where they stood, they could see outside to the parking pavilion and the limo port, where the red carpet began.

 

Another limo pulled up and a valet jumped to open the door. Jaw Breaker grinned as the lithe figure of William Shafter emerged, followed by the bulkier, slower one of Maynard Ryquist. Both men were done up in tuxedos and when they stood together, a fresh wave of flashes went off. William smiled and waved; Maynard blushed.

 

“Looks like our crew just beamed down,” Licorice commented with a smile. “Damn, I forget how big Ryquist is—he’s a pretty easy target at that height.”

 

Jaw Breaker agreed. “Yeah, but we’ve got backup.“

 

On the carpet, Maynard was still blinking from the flashes, trying to smile. He had worn his white-blond hair loose, and it hung nearly to the middle of his broad back. Draped down along his temples he had two thin braids capped with gold bands; the effect made him look more than ever like a Viking.

 

William had settled for an open collar to his tux and his own long brown curls gleamed over his shoulders. A small red rosebud was pinned to his lapel. He waved to the crowds, then patted Maynard on the forearm; the taller man followed him to the lobby and into the crush of people waiting to greet them. Jaw Breaker and Licorice watched, alert and focused, but the only thing that happened was that William linked his arm through Maynard’s and smiled.

 

Those closest in the crowd ‘aaahed,’ and a few applauded. Licorice grinned. “I think they just got the Cutest Couple vote. What do you think?”

 

“That’s a shoo-in. Where’s Macy and her entourage?”

 

“Next limo, I believe. Stop pulling on your tie.”

 

“It’s too tight,” Jaw Breaker grumbled. He worked a finger under it and tugged a little as outside, another limo pulled up. The valet opened the door and a woman in a deep rose satin pantsuit got out. She was followed by a bear, who wore a black bowtie and cuffs with gold links shaped like beehives.

 

They stood together, smiling—at least the woman was smiling; it was hard to tell if the bear was--and Licorice laughed out loud. “Man, it’s Fran and Dan! He actually wore the suit—that takes some kinda commitment.”

 

“Furry for life—although to tell you the truth, I kinda got used to him that way, you know?” Jaw Breaker pointed out. “Just part of who he is, I guess.”

 

“Yeah, I just hope he never has to take a plane somewhere—they’d force him to strip out.”

 

Any reply Jaw Breaker might have made was lost when a third person climbed out of the limo. He stepped out beside Fran and Dan, straightened his cuffs and smiled.

 

The suit was a modified tux with a mandarin collar, and had a subtle pattern of black on black paisley that only caught the eye in certain lighting. Added to it was a rich cornflower blue standing collar silk shirt and blue suede shoes. Mr. Peppermint gently stroked his goatee and smiled, his little round rose colored glasses twinkling.

 

“Oh man—that entire outfit would make Elton John drool,” Jaw Breaker finally commented. “Seriously.”

 

“And he does it again. I never get over how he just . . . chameleons into new people, you know?” Licorice added in an admiring tone. “You and me, we’re okay at it when it’s needed, but Mr. Peppermint---we are talking full metamorphosis.”

 

“I hear you, man. He’s anybody he _needs_ to be.”

 

They watched through the crowds as Mr. Peppermint strolled with Dan and Fran into the lobby of the Full Monty Hall, smiling. They were immediately engulfed by people, and for a moment the noise level went up.

 

Jaw Breaker sighed. “Well, the only person we don’t have here from Starship Intercourse is Macy. Everybody else is accounted for.” Before he could speak again, a doe-eyed young man in an ill-fitting dress suit walked up, batting his eyes at Jaw Breaker as he held out a program and a pen. “Oh wow! You’re those two hot security guys from the movie—Lennie Leonard and Carl Carlson!” Can I please have your autographs and a picture!”

 

“Ah . . . “ Looking helplessly at his partner, Jaw Breaker hesitated, but Licorice gave a little nod.

 

“Sure. Be happy to.”

 

Jaw Breaker shrugged and scribbled a signature on the program, (“It’s Allan, with two As and two Ls”) passing it to Licorice who did the same. Then the young man snagged a cooperative caterer and stood between the two Candy Shop agents, beaming. “Oh man, this is great! Thank you guys SO much!”

 

The obligatory two quick camera phone shots were taken, and both Jaw Breaker and Licorice smirked until Allan the fanboy began to walk away. They caught his last remark and froze.

 

“I can’t wait to post this— VegasGayHunks dot com are you red-day for the hotness!”

 

“Shit,” Licorice grumbled under his breath. “The things we do for this job."

 

“At least he didn’t have us autograph a thong," Jaw Breaker pointed out glumly.

 

Licorice sighed. “The night is still young.”

 

*** *** ***

 

The last limo pulled up with only a few minutes to spare and the timing wasn’t accidental as the paparazzi surged up to get the last photos. From his strategic vantage point near the entrance, Grissom watched the car slow to a stop amid the frenzy of flashes and smiled to himself. It had to be Macy and Sara, surely; once they were here the ceremonies could begin. He stroked his goatee once more, keeping his attention on the limo double doors swinging open.

 

In perfect synchronization, sleek legs slid into view, both wearing sexy stilettos, one pair white, the other black. The women slithered out together and the crowd raised a roar of delight at the sight of two sultry figures, one in black and the other in white, standing and waving to the crowds.

 

They were both in pearls, Grissom realized a little dizzily. Pearls and not much else. Their tops each consisted of a collar and long thin ropes of macramé pearls draped over sleek bare flesh and paired with tiny leather skirts.

 

One in black pearls, one in white. Both wore silvery sunglasses and bore matching cricket tattoos on their left shoulders. They looked at each other, and reached out to hold hands.

 

The crowd went wild.

 

Grissom gave a little moan at the sight, watching them saunter up the red carpet together in perfectly synchronized steps, each one waving to her side of the crowds. As they got closer, he also realized with a helpless wave of lust that while the Twin Dilemma might confuse Trekkers in Total Solidarity, he himself would have to be very, very careful about which woman to congratulate and which one to proposition.

 

It was going to be a long, hard night, yes indeed.


	11. Chapter 11

All across Las Vegas (and beyond that, the country and other nations as well) a fascinated audience watched the Fifth Annual Stiffy Awards as it broadcast live from the Topsy Turvy Casino. Among the interested viewership were:

 

**Bruce Eiger.**  
Lois O’Neill had called him earlier in the afternoon to cancel their Mommy and Me play date and he was fairly cranky about it. After all the tension about the bombing, and that nonsense with Conrad, Eiger had felt that a nice long bath and cuddle were in order for Baby Brucie. 

Unfortunately Lois informed him that Mommy was working on a book with her ghostwriter and would come see her little Angel sometime next week. Ultimately, the Stiffys were a minor compensation at best, and a self-diapered Bruce morosely watched from the comfort of his crib, perking up only whenever a starlet with substantial uncovered cleavage appeared onscreen.

Maybe it was time to get a new Mommy, he wondered.

 

**Senator Sam Braun.**  
Braun was at his home on the west side of Las Vegas, planted on the sofa in front of his large screen television. He’d had his party of one catered by Domino’s and sat in solitary splendor amid Styrofoam cartons of buffalo wings (spicy) with blue cheese dipping sauce and rather mediocre pepperoni pizza. A small bottle of personal lubricant, a box of Kleenex and a few unlabeled DVDs were on the coffee table as well, since the Senator planned to finish his evening’s viewing with a visit down a very dark memory lane.

 

**Catherine Willows and the man known as Mike Teevee.**  
It was unfortunate that neither of them was really watching much; the show was on in the background as Catherine struggled against her padded straightjacket and hurled out a long tirade of abuse at Mike while he drank another cup of coffee and nodded politely. He had a hypodermic all ready on the sideboard, laid out with the alcohol wipe beside it. Catherine looked haggard and nearly worn out; Mike was counting on giving her the pain medication in another hour and then making her lie down on the sofa for a while.

In her lucid moments in the last few days, she had thanked him. By the looks of this evening, was going to be a long time until her next moment of gratitude.

 

**Jelly Bean and Miss Lemon Drop.**  
He assured her it was a request from the top; a monitoring situation vital to the Shop. She wasn’t sure if she believed him, especially when he kept up a far-too-authoritative running commentary on various legends as they appeared on the stage at the Monty Hall. But it did mean incredible popcorn and a cozy arm around her for the evening at his apartment, so she wasn’t going to protest too much.

 

**Miss Lollipop and Sugar Daddy.**  
The Tipsy Suite of the Topsy Turvy was huge: two bedrooms, a full living room, a floor to ceiling balcony view, but two of the occupants were settled comfortably in the Jacuzzi with their daiquiris, watching the fifty one inch screen on the other side of the sauna. The third was on his back on the thick bathroom rug, snoozing and occasionally flicking a paw in the air as he slept.

 

**The patrons of the Moon Glow Bar.**   
Money changed hands in quiet little shuffles of bills all throughout the Moon Glow with every new winner was announced. The bartender stood under the television, keeping a gimlet eye on the crowd and making sure everyone walking in could clearly read his tee shirt, which said: _Rules of Betting at the Moon Glow: Your money or your life. Don’t make us choose for you._

 

**Olivia Grissom.**  
She only wanted a chance to see them in their tuxes, really. They were both so adorable, and anyone with eyes and half a heart could see that William and Maynard were just made for each other. Pay-Per-View wasn’t really that hard to get, and goodness knew she’d seen far more shocking things on OZ anyway. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been around the block once or twice herself when she was younger . . . and watching the pre-ceremony, that was odd.

That man standing by the two girls . . . he looked a bit like . . . no. It couldn’t be. Not her son. Gil wouldn’t be caught dead near an adult award ceremony, let alone wear BLUE shoes and a goatee. Impossible. And he certainly wouldn’t be so . . . well, to be honest, flaming. Not that she had any problem with taking people as they were, and yes, she’d certainly teased Gil enough, but to be wearing an earring and mincing his way across the stage--Olivia leaned closer to her television, staring carefully; troubled.

 

*** *** ***

“The Nominees for best new Starlet for two thousand seven are: Honey Sleeve, in The Bare Witch Project . . . Angel Blowmen in George of the Jungle Fever . . . Pinky Gasher in The Constant Gargler . . . and Celia Fate in Eat the Parents,” came the cultured tones of Roger Randy, former porn star and current host of the Spice Channel’s latest game show offering, The Weakest Kink. He had a leathery complexion and a mellow bass voice that he used to great effect as he let the names roll off his tongue. Raptly the audience watched the featured clips, applauding a little for each.

 

Finally Roger picked up the folded sheet and broke the seal. He handed it to the tall cocoa-skinned woman next to him and she smiled, her Jamaican accent rich and sweet as she read it aloud.

 

“De Stiffy goes to Pinky Gash-er, for De Constant Gargler! Congrat-u-lation, darlin’!”

 

A teary blonde in a transparent crystal poncho and a thong clambered up on the stage, her Lucite stilettos twinkling in the stage lights. She accepted the golden phallus from the two presenters and turned to smile at the crowd, giggling a little and wiping tears away. “Oh wow! Like, I’m so thrilled! Like, I can’t even get OVER how amazing it is to be here! Like, you guys like me! Like, you really, reeeeally LIKE me!”

 

The audience applauded and laughed a little; Pinky blushed and fondled her award, turning serious for a moment. “Like, I’d like to thank my parents, for not being uptight about my career choice—thanks you guys! And like, I need to shout out to my co-star Toro Del Lusto for being soooooo generous—"

 

The audience broke into laughter; not catching on, Pinky looked a little confused but laughed along anyway and held up her statue. “—Like, so anyway, whenever I look at this, I’ll think of you, Toro!”

 

Her costar, who was a few rows back from the front was shading his eyes with his hand, shoulders shaking with laughter as the crowd around him roared. Onstage, Roger escorted Pinky backstage while the hostess, Desiree Sweet, flashed a happy smile. “Oh Pinky honey, you jus’ made a memor-a-ble moment!”

 

The music came up, and Desiree clung to the podium as it slid back and a voiceover came on, “And now, the Topsy Turvy dancers are proud to present the Stiffy Award tribute to the Sex Toy!”

 

The music began, and the long line of sparkling dildoes moved out onstage. Down in the front row of the audience, Grissom sat in the dark, parked between Black Pearl and White Pearl, sneaking looks at both women, and wishing that his crossed legs were doing a better job of hiding his enthusiasm for their outfits. So far neither woman had spoken to him, all the better to keep up the mystery, although he had a theory on who was who.

 

Onstage, the toys of titillation had formed a chorus line and were bobbing in colorful rhythm as the Divinyls hit played on. Suddenly, Grissom felt another synchronization as hands on either side of him reached out and stroked his thighs. He stiffened, in more ways than one, and sucked in a little gasp. Carefully he dropped his hands over the two wandering ones, trying to pin them down.

 

“Don’t make me spank both of you," he growled under his breath, aware that the mental image that presented was not going to alleviate his condition at all. Stereo snickers greeted this threat; Grissom uncrossed his legs and forced himself to keep his eyes towards the show directly ahead of him. He kept their hands pressed against his thighs and tried to smile impishly for the camera that was scanning the audience while at the same time looking carefully at every aspect of the stage in front of him.

 

It was a professional production, very smooth from what he could see. In a moment the dancers would be ending their number and William would be coming onstage to sing. Grissom didn’t think that the ambush would come then; it was far more likely to occur at the Best Actor, or Best Director presentations occurred. Jaw Breaker and Licorice were in place in the wings on either side of the stage, ready to move at a moment’s notice, if they weren’t too distracted by the entertainment.

 

Distraction seemed to be everywhere, he noted, feeling a trickle of sweat along his hairline. Although he had stopped the groping hands, there was now a double footsie play going on with each of his feet, as the women on either side of him shifted to let their stilettos toy with his pants cuffs. Grissom manfully held back another little groan and wondered if he was going to last through William’s ballad before he erupted.

 

*** *** ***

 

Sara kept her smirk small, but inside she allowed herself to grin hugely, all too aware of the sweatiness of Mr. Peppermint’s hand pinning hers. The game—proposed by Macy the night before over strawberry and lime daiquiris—was going exceedingly well, and although she thought she should feel a little remorse in distracting him, it was too much fun to see the man hot and bothered in public.

 

She shot a sidelong long glance behind his head at Macy, who nodded. Both of them gently squeezed Mr. Peppermint’s thighs. His jaw tightened as did his slacks.

“You two are asking for serious trouble," he hissed, blinking hard. Sara held her breath, feeling a warm shiver deep inside at his ruthless tone.

Being a bad girl was so wonderfully fun.

 

*** *** ***

 

William finished the last notes of The Final Frontier (Is Loving You) and bowed shyly as the thunderous applause filled the Full Monty Hall and the standing crowd roared their overwhelming approval. He glanced towards the wings, where the object of his affections stood smiling and sniffling, big hands pounding together along with the crowd. He nodded for Maynard to come out, but the big man shook his head, mouthing, ‘YOUR night!’ and William sighed. He bowed again and smilingly walked off stage towards his love as Desiree Sweet came forth from the other side, applauding and beaming.

 

“Isn’t he a-may-zin? Dat mon bet-tair get an album out quick, dat’s all I got to say! Now, we’re movin’ on to Best Use of Liquid Lay-tex in an Orgy, and I mus’ say, it’s been a good, good year fo’ hot rub-bary luv, darlins!”

 

Roger Randy came out to join Desiree, slipping his arm around her and holding the envelope in the other hand. He laughed softly and guided her to the podium. “Absolutely, Desiree! So let’s have a look at the nominees, shall we?”

 

Down front, three ushers came out and towards Mr. Peppermint and the Pearl Twins, taking their seats. Escorting the two women, one on either arm, Mr. Peppermint moved with them to the side door to the stage and into the quiet chaos of dancers changing costumes, set shifters, photographers and ushers.

 

“Best Director is coming up after this category, so if our hate group is going to strike, it will be then,” Mr. Peppermint told the two women, who nodded. “We thought it would be best to be backstage before the announcement.”

 

Dimly through the back curtain they could hear Roger reading off the nominees. “Perverts of the Caribbean . . . Teenage Mutant Ninja Trannies . . . The Bourne Indecency . . . Starship Intercourse . . . and the Golden Stiffy goes to . . . . Perverts of the Caribbean!”

 

The applause was a dull roar, and a flutter of the curtain as someone heavy-footed bounded up on the stage. There was a squeal from Desiree, and a laugh from Roger, then a familiar voice spoke up. “Oh I’m SO delighted to accept this award in place of producer Terry Quinland who couldn’t be here tonight! On behalf of all the folks associated with Tia Carumba and Perverts of the Caribbean, my sister and I want to thank each and every one of you for your support!”

 

Sara found herself grinning at Dan’s heartfelt remarks, and wondering if he was burning up inside his plushie suit. Just then a harried-looking man with a headset was motioning them to stand offside a moment as he spoke into his mike. Obligingly Sara, Macy and Mr. Peppermint did. 

 

“Okay, last one of the night, Owen . . . bring up the lights--"

 

“Ohhhyah! You cer-tain-lee how to giva bear hug, Dan!” came Desiree’s happy voice through the curtain. The audience roared once more. Sara noted that William and Maynard were a few feet away, shyly holding hands and waiting with Jaw Breaker and Licorice. The bustle backstage settled down a bit and a drum roll echoed through the Hall.

 

“And now, here we are, at the climax of our long, sweet evening, Desiree. We’ve watched a lot of exhilarating performances between the sheets tonight, and seen some things that definitely shouldn’t be tried at home—“ Roger boomed out cheerfully.

 

His co hostess laughed. “But prob-a-blee _will_ be! I’m SO ex-cited! De nominees for Best Director dis year are . . . Les-lee Laymore for Obsceno Royale . . . May-cee Mac-Don-ald for Starship Intercourse . . . .”

 

Roger’s voice spoke up, reading confidently, “David Worthington, for Finding Reamo . . . Jamal Laughlin for Side Lays . . . annnnnd the Golden Stiffy for best director of an adult picture of two thousand seven goes to . . . Macy MacDonald for Starship Intercourse!”

 

More applause, and Sara found herself being herded out around the curtain onto the stage along with Mr. Peppermint, Macy MacDonald, William Shafter and Maynard Ryquist. The lights were dazzling, and the sweeping wave of flashes from the audience had a blinding brilliance that made her self-conscious and wary. She reached for Macy’s hand and took it as the applause went on and on.

 

Roger and Desiree handed over the statue to Sara and Macy. They took the statue and held it aloft between them for a moment, then lowered it and smiled; they spoke together. “Thank you for this.” Carefully they passed it to Mr. Peppermint, who hefted it and smiled. “Oh you’re a _big_ one, aren’t you?” he purred sweetly into the microphone on the podium. 

 

The crowd roared again. Mr. Peppermint batted his eyes shamelessly at them and waited until people began to settle down before speaking again. “Congratulations are in order. First and foremost to you, the audience, for your vibrant, good-spirited enjoyment of our little parody. And secondly for your good taste in acknowledging the most amazing director I’ve ever worked for.”

 

Sara and Macy looked at each other, moved in unison and kissed.

 

The crowd roared. Moving in tandem yet again, the two women broke apart and each took one of Mr. Peppermint’s arms and stepped back, gesturing to William. He nodded and stepped up to the mike. “Wow. I have to tell you, it’s been a hell of a year.”

 

Out beyond the lights the audience laughed appreciatively. Sara noted that Mr. Peppermint was shooting her sidelong glances, his look making it perfectly clear that he now knew her. William spoke on. “Not only have Maynard Ryquist and I been lucky enough to work with Macy MacDonald, but also to appreciate the good-humored acceptance out there for the genre and the slash we took on.”

 

At that moment a nasal and thin little yell broke out; the crowd buzzed as a geeky little man in a Star Trek uniform (TOS, ensign rank, Engineering) clumsily ran on the stage, welding a wicked looking curved tool that looked like a boomerang with spikes. Sara jumped, and Mr. Peppermint moved, but beating them both was—

 

\--Maynard. He stepped over, plucked the Klingon Bat’leth from the man’s grasp and held it up, his outstretched arm putting the thing high out of reach. With his other arm, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him around. Quickly, William pulled him over and hugged him. Startled, the man squawked, but Maynard stepped close on the other side, boxing him in between the two actors.

 

William laughed. “SO cool! Yeah, isn’t it amazing to know that the very fandom we poked a little fun at with Starship Intercourse is the _same one_ that so beautifully promotes Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations? And that this enthusiastic fan is our living proof of that? I tell you folks, it’s a terrific world! Thank you all, and good night!”

 

“Wait! That’s not--" Owen Kornpett bleated, but Maynard’s hand squeezed his clavicle harder, and thinking better of it, Owen fell silent. Then Mr. Peppermint began to applaud, and responding to that, the crowd did as well while Sara and Macy began to herd everyone to one side of the stage. Roger and Desiree stared after them a moment, but with aplomb took to the podium and nodded at the audience.

 

“Wow, Yeah, it’s been quite a night, eh Desiree? On behalf of the Topsy Turvy Casino, good night from the Fifth Annual Stiffy Awards!”

 

“Good-night every’one!” Desiree chimed in, waving happily. “Drive safe, an’ remember—if you love it, _lube_ it!”

 

Backstage, things were not nearly as happy.

 

Jaw Breaker, Licorice and three Topsy Turvy security men crowded round Owen Kornpett and cuffed him with plastic. Jaw Breaker held out a hand for the Bat’leth and Maynard passed it over.

 

“We’re taking him to Security and notifying the authorities,” Jaw Breaker told Mr. Peppermint grimly. “Damn it—he works here, had the right security badge and everything! Slipped in after the song and changed, then ducked back behind the main curtains waiting for his moment.”

 

“He works here?” Mr. Peppermint asked incredulously as the Security guards began herding Kornpett out. Licorice nodded, his expression grim.

 

“Yeah, up in the control booth. Apparently he pre-programmed all the lights and cues for the last ten minutes of the show so he didn’t actually have to be up there—pretty damn clever.”

 

“Very. And we were so busy looking at the audience we didn’t consider it could be an inside job,” Mr. Peppermint mused. “Our mistake—we won’t make that one again.”

 

“No, we won’t. Oh, and for the record? This thing’s balsa wood and plastic,” Jaw Breaker waved the Bat’leth. “The chance of him doing serious damage with it was pretty low.”

 

Already Kornpett had been hustled away discreetly; Licorice and Jaw Breaker followed leaving Mr. Peppermint with his twins, along with Maynard and William. 

 

William gave a little sigh. “Too much excitement. I think I could do with a quick dinner and head on home. Whatcha think, May?”

 

The blonde giant perked up. “Waffle World? You know how much the manager hates it when I show up to ‘all you can eat’ blintz night."

 

“Let’s do it," William laughed. They slipped away, and finally the only three people standing in the nearly empty backstage looked at each other. Mr. Peppermint cleared his throat and turned to glare at the two women.

 

“You two . . . witches . . . have a lot to answer for.”

 

In response they giggled, but Mr. Peppermint shifted the award in his grasp from hand to hand, his expression stern. “Laugh it up, ladies--you may have had the audience out there confused, but not me.”

 

They looked skeptical; Mr. Peppermint flashed a dangerous grin. Moving quickly, he thrust the award in to the hands of the woman in the black pearls. “Congrats, Macy, now take a hike—I need to talk to my naughty associate here.”

 

“Busted!” she laughed. “I’d ask you how you knew, but it can wait-- I think you two will be busy. I’m off to dinner with Desiree and Roger . . . ta-ta, girlfriends!” So saying, Macy sauntered off, happily fondling the heavy gold statue in her hands. As the sound of her stilettos faded away, Sara took a wary step back from Mr. Peppermint’s hot-eyed stare.

 

“It was _her_ idea."

 

“It was _your_ idea, Frango, completely. Only _you_ would have the deviousness to play the tease that long. Macy’s too direct, but _you_ —”

 

She took another step back, and bumped into the heavy grey velvet curtain against the wall. Beyond it came the faint sounds of the audience slowly making their way out, chatting and laughing. Then Mr. Peppermint moved in, pinning her in his arms, grinding hard against her torso in the darkness of the pocket the curtain formed around them. 

 

Sara groaned, kissing him hard and deep, the sensual rush making her hips rock to his in quick hunger. She slid her tongue into Mr. Peppermint’s mouth, gasping at the heat of his lips on hers. Her hand slid down to his slacks, fumbling for his fly.

 

“Here," she gasped. He gave a little grunt of agreement and tugged the pearl ropes wide, pulling them free of the tape that held them in place. Mr. Peppermint kissed her exposed breasts, nosing his way from one hard rosy nipple to the other, his groan barely muffled against her skin. Sara writhed, working her hand into his dress slacks, cupping the hot, hard thickness of his cock and tugging it out.

 

“This won’t . . . be tender," He warned her in a hungry, rough voice, and his big hands pulled her skirt up to her waist. She gave a half-sobbing laugh and kissed him again, wrapping one slender leg around his hip as her hands guided him forward.

 

“Good!" Sara moaned. Mr. Peppermint slipped his hands under her bare ass and braced; he thrust in, pinning her up against the velvet curtain and the wall behind it with one deep, voluptuous shove. Sara gasped, and he kissed her throat as he rocked forward again, his breath hot against her neck.

 

“YessGod . . ." came his growl as the rhythm between them shifted into slick perfection, their bodies moving in searing strokes. Sara moved her hands down along his flexing back, clutching hard.

 

“OhhOhhyess . . ." she whimpered, feeling the building rush of heat between her thighs. The stilettos added to the new angle made all the difference, and the thick rub of Mr. Peppermint’s shaft along her cleft was quickly driving her right to the edge.

 

“I love you, I love you like this—hungry for me, God,Sara, God I’m going to come—“ he gasped against her jaw line, his hands squeezing her bare ass hard. Sara squealed as she clung to him, and as he groaned, she felt herself tip over the edge, the waves of mindless pleasure washing through her, blooming between her hips like a rich dark flower with velvety petals.


	12. Chapter 12

The summons was brief and dry; 9:00 AM, Doctor Marazek’s office, attendance mandatory. 

 

Grissom looked at his watch and noted it was nearly three minutes after the appointed hour; if Miss Lollipop was trying to work a psychological advantage, it was unsubtle. He sat back on the sofa in the waiting area forcing himself to relax and mentally ticking over all the arguments, pro and con. Both lists were fairly full, he realized, and ultimately it would be a long debate to touch on all of them fairly.

The outside door opened, and Miss Chocolate came in, barely glancing his way. She strode up to the receptionist and spoke softly; politely. “I believe I have an appointment with Doctor Marazek this morning for nine?”

Clementine nodded, and motioned to the waiting area, murmuring, “I’ll let the doctor know."

Grissom watched Miss Chocolate saunter over and sit down on the sofa opposite him, not meeting his eye. They sat in silence, ignoring each other completely for a few long moments while out of the corner of his eye, Grissom admired her legs. A part of him felt amused at the staged effect of it all—two naughty youngsters facing the principal at long last. Given how the two of them had spent the previous night however, that analogy ended right there. Miss Chocolate was exceedingly naughty—a fact Grissom adored to the extreme—but she was no foolish little girl. 

Any further thoughts along those lines would make trouble, and Grissom reluctantly turned his mind to how best to deal with his mother instead. She’d sent him a curious Email, full of odd little comments, and from it Grissom deduced she’d not only seen the show at the Topsy Turvy, but also had spotted him. A few years ago that fact would have annoyed him immensely, but at the moment it seemed a small matter. He could convince his mother that her perception was wrong.

Doing the same with Miss Lollipop would be much more difficult.

A single tone chimed out from Clementine St. Croix’s desk; she smiled at Miss Chocolate and Grissom. “The doctor will see you both now.”

Carefully they rose and Grissom let her lead the way into Doctor Marazek’s office, passing silently by the receptionist. Once inside, they stood by the door, side by side.

Doctor Heather Marazek sat behind her desk, not smiling. She had on her reading glasses; little half-moon ones on a chain, and in front of her were two thick files, both open. She wore a tailored suit of some dark silk material and her hair was up in a chignon.

There was no tea in evidence anywhere.

She gestured to both of them with a nod of her head, indicating the two chairs in front of her desk. Grissom took his time settling in, aware that the seat was lower than normal, all the better to give Doctor Marazek another psychological advantage. Nonetheless, he sat back comfortably and met her gaze with a clear one of his own.

Miss Chocolate was equally relaxed, her sunglasses pushed up over her forehead, her two thousand dollar purse dangling gently from the chair’s arm. 

“By all rights, I should dismiss the both of you immediately,” Doctor Marazek began in the low slow voice she used when she was serious. “If it wasn’t for the fact that _I_ am the one who deliberately set the stage for your current involvement.”

Grissom blinked. Out of all the things he expected her to say, this had never been one of them. Next to him, Miss Chocolate shifted forward, a protest on her lips, but Doctor Marazek shook her head firmly and spoke again. “Oh yes, Miss Sidle, make no mistake. After studying your profile and that of Mr. Grissom, I took it upon myself to pair you up together for the last three months.”

“You . . . did this deliberately? _Why_?” Grissom demanded gently even as a suspicion dawned deep in his thoughts. Doctor Marazek leaned back and tapped one of the files on her desk with a long, elegant finger.

“Grissom . . . Gil—don’t be blind. You know your psychological evaluations of the last three years have been of concern to me. You’re a recluse, with antisocial tendencies at times; a perfectionist with few outside interests and a guilt complex over the death of Michelle Kovar. Your conflicted psyche makes you far too good at submersing yourself in alter egos to avoid dealing with your pain—need I go on?”

Grissom felt the flush roll up his face, the heat of it matching his anger. He struggled for a long moment to control it, keeping his glare on Doctor Marazek’s face as he took a quick breath. “No, I suppose not.”

Doctor Marazek turned to Miss Chocolate and sighed. “And _you_ , Miss Sidle—the youngest child of a violent household, an abuse survivor with a streak of recklessness that has put you at risk in every job you’ve had before joining the Shop. You’re coping with an addiction, and in denial of your tendency to overestimate your own abilities.”

Miss Chocolate’s finger gripped the arms of the chair tightly, and Grissom fought the urge to reach over and touch them.

Doctor Marazek leaned forward and placed a hand on each file. “Two brilliant, resourceful, original thinkers, both psychologically damaged, but salvageable.”

“What’s your point?” Miss Chocolate demanded in a low monotone. 

Doctor Marazek rose up and paced over to the window, looking out at the balcony and the view of Las Vegas beyond it. She sighed. “You both know that the Shop came out of a dual need—not only the need for a vigilante group that could work outside the confines of the law, but also the need for certain individuals to DO that work. To bring justice where it is required.”

“And?” Grissom shifted to keep his eyes on her, feeling a little less angry, but a bit more anxious now. Doctor Marazek turned to look at them both, and her dominant position wasn’t lost on him.

“The keyword is people. More than one; teams. Partnerships. Group efforts. Despite our flaws and issues, all of us working at the Shop work best when we work together—it’s one of the most basic tenets of human nature, and I’ve used it several times to improve our organization. For example, Mr. Brown and Mr. Stokes are a natural partnership, each relying on the other in a synchronicity that makes them amazingly efficient.”

Both Grissom and Miss Chocolate nodded. Doctor Marazek went on. “Mr. Brass and his daughter Ellie are another natural partnership—a mentor/student relationship that rises from the familial tie they have . . . a given, if you will.”

“Again—your point?” Miss Chocolate asked, but more neutrally now. Doctor Marazek nodded.

“My point is that in every case where a partnership is formed, the benefits to both the people involved and the case they face have increased. It’s been proven time and again, and with the agents of the Shop most especially. We are . . . the damaged,” she faltered for a moment and went on, “And the most at risk. The work we do here gives us purpose, but there’s more to life than that.”

Grissom rubbed his eyes. “So the gist of what you’re saying is that you looked at our profiles and decided to play . . . matchmaker. You paired us up based on our psych evaluations, hoping that we’d be able to mesh as a team.”

“Succinctly put. Yes, I did, although my hand in the matter was minor, I assure you. The Eiger Mission was the _only_ overt one I paired you for—Jelly Bean asked for the both of you for his elaborate con, and after that it was more of a natural assumption on your parts to choose among the offered projects, picking ones that allowed you to work in tandem.”

Miss Chocolate glared at Doctor Marazek, who took in the look with serenity. “A lot of people would consider what you’d done unethical—using privileged information to deliberately manipulate people under your care. It’s the sort of situation that could be reported to the certification board for your license.”

“A lot of people would probably be more interested in my using patients to carry out elaborate crusades of questionable tactics to promote a personal agenda of justice — more so than they would be in the scheming of a romance. I’m well aware of my questionable ethics, Miss Sidle, and I’m willing to take the ultimate responsibility for them. You two may feel a great deal of anger and resentment towards me and that’s to be expected. However, I consider your pairing to be a success, both emotionally and professionally.”

There was no answer to that; Grissom shot a glance at Miss Chocolate, who was looking back at him with a wry twist of a smile. He cocked his head and shifted his glance to Doctor Marazek, who was looking out the window once again, her back to the both of them. “And yet . . . and yet Shop policy clearly states that those of us employed here are forbidden to socialize or fraternize outside of our missions and work time.”

“Yes, Mr. Grissom it does. Quite a dilemma, isn’t it?” She flexed her shoulders a moment and turned to face them. “So the crux of the matter is this—do I dismiss you both from the Shop and risk losing a pair of brilliant agents who have more than enough ruthlessness and determination between them to bring down this entire organization if they chose to do so . . . or do I consider revising the policy?”

Grissom rose up, facing her. “What would _that_ require?”

Doctor Marazek frowned. “The policies of the Shop were set down by myself and the two sponsors. Mr. Sugar is amenable to the change. Mrs. Honey is not convinced. That makes mine the deciding vote on this issue, and I have a proposition to make.”

“Mr. Sugar? Mrs. Honey?” Miss Chocolate grumbled, getting gracefully to her feet and coming to stand next to Grissom. “If they’re agents I’ve never _heard_ of them.”

“Neither of them are agents. Mr. Sugar is connected with the Department of Justice, and Mrs. Honey is a private citizen of substantial means. Between them, they contributed to the funds and helped create the Candy Shop, Miss Chocolate. I’m the least member of our triumvirate, and the only one active in the day to day running of our company.”

Grissom sighed; much of this was old history to him, so he moved towards the window, deliberately slow. “You mentioned a proposition—I’d like to hear it, because I have no intention of ending my relationship with Miss Chocolate OR of leaving this organization.”

“Very well,” she gave a half-smile that included Miss Chocolate. “What I propose is this—to prove that your interpersonal dynamics are a benefit to your missions, I want the two of you to beat the best time at Eternity. If you can do that _together_ , then I can take that accomplishment to Mr. Sugar and Mrs. Honey as proof that the policies should be changed.”

Grissom felt his stomach tighten; Miss Chocolate looked from him to Doctor Marazek uncomprehendingly. “What’s Eternity?”

“That’s loading the dice, Heather—Sara’s never _run_ Eternity.”

“True, but you have—isn’t the best time on it _yours_ , Gil? You got through it in fifty seven minutes two years ago,” Doctor Marazek pointed out. “Well under the old record of ninety two minutes set by Nonpareil.”

“I got lucky—one broken arm and some charred skin; this isn’t fair,” he protested in a low, angry voice.

“Life isn’t. If you want to work with Sara as well as love her, you’re going to have to demonstrate that the two of you together have what it takes to get through Eternity in under fifty-seven minutes, Gil. That’s the _only_ proof I can use to change Shop policy: take it or leave it.”

“What. Is. Eternity?” Miss Chocolate repeated firmly, her cool demeanor barely masking her annoyance. “Some sort of test?”

*** *** ***

She opened her eyes and looked at the mid morning light. It was muted, filtering through the bedroom curtains and touching on all the faded furniture around her. Catherine Willows gave a little groan and tried to sit up.

It had gotten easier, moving around in a straitjacket. She was barefoot almost all the time now, and keeping her balance wasn’t hard when her head was clear. Catherine listened, and the comforting sound of the surf in the distance relaxed her a bit. 

Still here in the beach house with Mike. At least that was a constant too. Carefully Catherine swung her legs over the side of the bed and rolled onto her stomach, getting her feet under her and slowly rising. She wished she could brush the hair back from her face, but contented herself with blowing her bangs out of the way with a couple of puffs upward. 

Pushing up, she turned and looked towards the door; the scent of scrambled eggs drifted through it, and for the first time in two weeks it smelled tempting. Catherine tottered forward, deliberately making noise.

It was their routine, worked out after the first few days, and although it seemed odd it worked for them. Catherine would come and get unstrapped, then drink a mug full of coffee at the table. Whatever else his quirks, faults and annoyances, Catherine had to admit that whatever else his faults, Mike made a fantastic cup of Java.

He’d take her temperature and check her blood pressure, then make her eat a little breakfast—usually a protein smoothie with fruit. Then she’d be free to take a shower and change clothes. They spent the days down at the beach, or sometimes Mike would drive them into town and do a little shopping. In a lot of ways it was almost a normal sort of vacation, if you didn’t count the medical monitoring and nightly confinement.

Catherine was a fighter, and as her mind and body cleared, she was more and more firmly convinced that the mis-dosage of her pain medication had been deliberate. Hell, the accident itself had probably been deliberate too—given what her father was capable of, she wouldn’t put it past him to try and kill her. Mike listened to her theories and asked good questions; she knew she sounded utterly paranoid, but he never laughed or brushed her observations away.

He was so careful with her, and Catherine couldn’t quite understand why but she appreciated his patience. Mike had assured her that he was working on behalf of Heather Marazek, and that the doctor herself would be coming out shortly to see her. He cajoled Catherine into eating, made her call Lindsay every other day, and read out loud to her in the evenings, usually choosing Ian Fleming Bond novels.

Mike told her a little about himself, enough to reassure her that she wasn’t in the hands of some maniac. She knew by his actions that he was honorable as well, and that gradually became a sense of trust, especially when night came, and with it the delirium. 

It was getting easier now, and not as long or intense. She was sleeping a few more hours each night— _real_ sleep, not the drug-induced kind.

“There—feel like eggs yet?” he broke into her thoughts gently, pulling off the straitjacket from her arms. She nodded, and was rewarded with one of his dimpled, shy smiles.

“Actually, yeah. And toast.”

“You’re in luck—I happen to have some.”

He slid a plate in front of her and settled in across the table, his own mound of fluffy scrambled eggs piled high. “Eat up, they’re good for you.”

“You’re really bossy,” Catherine pointed out archly.

Mike shrugged. “So are you, Cat, so are you. We have big plans today—company’s coming.”

Catherine looked up, her fork halfway in her mouth. She swallowed quickly. “Heather?”

“Yep. Changing of the guard. She’ll be here with you while I fly out to Vegas for a few days.”

Catherine frowned a little. “Okay. It will be good to see Heather, that’s for sure, but why are you off? Or is that top secret?”

Mike waggled his eyebrows at her. “It’s sorta like that movie with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. You know, with one with the nookie on the beach.”

Catherine shot him a questioning look. “From here to Eternity?”

“Precisely. Can’t say anymore without getting into trouble, but that’s where I’m going. In the meantime you need to be good and finish up your stint here at Magic Mike’s Rehab Shack. Gonna miss me?” he added playfully. 

Catherine tried to glare at him, but ended up smirking, and feeling the heat of a blush on her face. They’d gone through a lot in the past ten days, and so much of it had been rough. She’d vomited on him, fought him, hurled abuse and cursed him and the man took none of it personally. Mike had been there through the worst of it and still seemed to care.

“More than you know, Mike.”

He grinned.


End file.
